An End Has a Start
by This Rhythm
Summary: At 19, he thinks he'll never be given a chance, until he is. At 19, he doesn't expect to feel the amount of humiliation and shame as he walks through Hogwarts corridors. And at 19, he doesn't expect... He expects nothing. But neither does she. D/H
1. Chapter 1

"Silence!" The judge looked sternly at everyone, waiting for their attention. The old man leaned forward, and all but whispered, "Do you have any say in this matter?"

The unmistakably pale blond hair was cast low, away from the prying eyes. All was silent in the room, anticipation hanging by the thread. Big and small people with black cloaks were towered over him, sitting high above the tortured boy. They waited.

And so he might as well let them for a short while.

After several minutes, the man raised his head very slowly, mustering all the courage and strength he could. This was shame; this was humiliation. He knew, either way, that he would be punished. He would be punished for the crimes he had done, whether or not he was forced. He knew no matter what, he would be haunted for what he had done. So no, he had nothing to say.

The young man could practically hear the whole room suck in some air, waiting for his plea. Waiting for him to say that yes, he was guilty. If he did, his sentence would be cut in half and some leniency would be given to him.

Finally, his piercing steel grey eyes locked into the old man's withering ones. Hands shackled, feet bound, and given the dirtiest clothing; this was just the beginning. He had to do something. He had to stop somehow. He had to feel something. He had to know that maybe he would see Hogwarts, even if it didn't bring back the best of memories. He had to know what it felt like to be truly loved, to be married, to have kids.

But it was completely ruined. And he would never know. And he doesn't fight for it.

"No," he said inaudibly.

As if a time bomb was done ticking, the whole room exploded into shouts and name calling. The one guilty returned his head back to his previous position, low and shameful. He didn't care about this. He just wished they could send him to the Dementors, and have them Kiss him. He didn't want to live.

The judge used a casting charm to raise his voice and have him heard. "Again: silence! We cannot go on if we are acting as animals!" The room instantly became quiet, again waiting, tired. As much as this was interesting, it was rather exhausting. The court had about three hundred more people to prosecute, and this trial was taking too long.

The man sighed, and took off his reading glasses. "Son, I . . . I'm willing to give you a chance." Draco's jaw clenched at hearing 'son.' He didn't want the old man to call him son. Out of all the things he was worried about. . . But not that it really mattered. Nothing mattered.

"For your punishment, I think it would be appropriate if . . ."

* * *

His eyes were wide in fear. Two men were holding him down, trying to restrain him. Merlin, the size of that thing! How would it fit? It had a red glow, taunting him with the amount of heat and fire.

No.

Sweat rolled down from his smooth forehead, down to his cheeks. His heart beat faster, seeing the cursed thing approach. This couldn't be. He was just a young man! Why this?

That was when he started to fight.

"Hold yer horses, boy! Stay still!" said one man. The big burly man on his left squeezed his arm some more, and it felt like it was going to tear out. He struggled again, but no sound came out from his mouth. He could hear his own erratic breathing, his heart beating beyond measure. He tried to throw his arms up, but was brought with resistance. It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth fighting after everything he had done.

But it was his young, nineteen year old instincts to make him want throw a fight. And as much as he wanted to take responsibility, as much as he wanted to act like a man, he couldn't. He had gone through so much in so little time, he wondered if this would ever work. If anything would work. He wanted to hold on some inkling that maybe everything would be fine. That come next year, he would celebrate his twentieth with family and friends.

All good things come to an end. Always.

The youngster screamed, for Merlin knows how long, as the metal seeped through his chest. It burned his skin, scorched his muscles, causing his nerves to explode with pain. His piercing cry bounced off the walls, and causing everyone in the room have their hearts broken from hearing the young man cry.

_It'll be OK_, the man coaxed himself, as the devil's mark slowly etched itself in him. _It'll be OK_.

* * *

"How is he fairing?" asked a muted voice. The young man was aware of the fact that he was lying on his back, in a cold place; he was either back in Azkaban or somewhere else. He was also remotely aware of the pain - the sizzling pain in his chest. It hurt to breathe. When he would take in some oxygen, his muscles would scream in agony, tightening even more around the cursed thing, his nerves reacting in a painful manner. He kept his eyes closed, hoping for the voices to go away and hoping for the pain to never return again.

"Well, Minister, he's been asleep fo' long time, now, eh? Poor chap," the other man said. His voice was hard and unpolished.

The Minister sighed. He then asked, in his deep, soothing voice, "Do you think he will be ready to leave yet?"

"Uh," started the unpolished man. The prisoner could hear him scratch his filthy hair. "I reckon. But, I think we 'ave to see; this kind of punishment ain't tossed around lightly." The man stopped. "As much as I don't wanna feel sorry . . . He's just a young boy." The two men outside the prisoner's cell lapsed into a sober silence.

"Fear and power can turn anyone into something they don't want to. Or mean to, that is," said the Minister sagely.

"Yer know, I's mighty glad you the new minister now. You see, the old one, he was goin' around, gatherin' all the bad folks- even the innocent- and sending them to the Dementors . . . It's been a lot easier with you, sir," praised the unpolished one.

The minister chuckled. "Thank you, Thomas." He paused. "I think I will come back later. My work is done." There was a rustle and jingle of keys, and the blond haired boy heard them leave, wishing they were still here. It was better than no company, after all.

It was better than feeling the magic come from his punishment, attaching itself to his nerves and veins and muscles, being an uninvited interloper. It was better than waking up, screaming and uttering his mother's name, wanting some comfort as opposed to the cold air. It was better than . . . It was just better.

* * *

"Hey, how did he get out?"

"How do you plan to serve your sentence, Mr.-"

"You! Feeling ashamed enough already?"

"I'll make you pay! I'll make every single one of you pay!"

Goodness, these people knew how to make some noise. People were surrounding him, pushing him, shoving him, and throwing curses, yelling that they wanted him to die. The young one heard someone say that he hoped he would be cursed for eternity.

Draco didn't really doubt that.

He was being hurled along through the ministry's main lobby, pass the crazy reporters, who were looking for a pay raise on the hottest Death Eater gossip. Cameras flashed in front of him, momentarily blinding him, until another tug was felt on his arm and he would be brought back to reality.

"Minister! How did you come to this decision?" Kingsley Shacklebolt was walking behind him and his body guards, his smooth and purposeful steps oddly calming. The minister ignored the reporter while he tagged the confused, lost ex prisoner. Draco felt relieved, for some reason, knowing that at least one person cared for his welfare. To an extent, that is.

They had finally reached the very large area where wizards and witches arrived and left through Floo Powder. There was a large section cut off by magical means, allowing Draco room to get out of the God forsaken place. The mob was desperately trying to break through for reasons unknown. Well, it was rather obvious. Draco ignored them, keeping his nonchalant demeanor strong. His hands and feet were tied down until he would be taken to a new location; where it was, Draco didn't know, but he knew - or hoped - that it was someplace good.

Draco's two body guards and Kingsley stopped in front of the fire place. One guard left Draco's side, while the one remaining kept a tight hold on him. They sluggishly approached, Draco dragging his limp legs inside the fireplace. Draco slowly turned around, fully facing the crowd. Every voice was muted, shouts dull, going from one ear to another. He saw the angry faces, the tears, the red blotches on their cheeks. He could see their mouths turn into rude words, cursing him. Waiting for him to be gone. And yet . . .

And yet. It still wasn't enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Breaking News: Death Eater Released**

**Everything was quiet and mum for a very long time, until our own Daily Prophet reporter was tipped off that dear old Mr. Draco Malfoy was being released. His punishment has been kept low, and the Minister refuses to say anything in this manner. However, it was revealed that Mr. Malfoy will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year.**

**Mr. Malfoy is not the only one being released, but he is only a handful given a second chance. Most of the ex Death Eaters have claimed not guilty, while others have fully acknowledged they were proud of what they had done.**

**Judge Hawthorne says he has been**

Hermione Granger snapped the paper shut, sick dread filling her stomach. No. This couldn't be. When Hermione tried to reason with Kingsley to be lenient to some of the younger prisoners, she hadn't asked him to do this. She hadn't asked him to let go of _Draco Malfoy._

This was absurd. This was completely backward! If they were going to be nice and easy with Malfoy, then they were probably going to be nice and soft to everyone else. She had expected a lot better from Kingsley Shacklebolt; a lot better. And this worried her.

"Did you see the paper, Harry?" she asked. She was sitting in the table at the Burrow, quietly munching on poached eggs, courtesy of Molly. The sun was shining brightly through the window, and her once happy breakfast was long done. She pushed her plate aside, and Harry too noticed her agitation.

Harry had just woken up, and he yawned loudly. "Morning to you too," he replied back.

Hermione mad an impatient sound and said, "Harry, look!" Sensing that Hermione had something rather important to say, he sighed, rumpling his ever messed up hair and came over. He slowly took the paper and began reading it. Hermione kept a close eye on Harry's expression, as his face went from curious to downright mad.

"Malfoy? Out of all people! I expected him to stay for a bit longer." Harry slumped in the chair opposite of Hermione. Hermione noticed that he wasn't wearing a shirt, and it troubled her so. Boys.

She sighed. "Harry, maybe Kingsley has a good reason for this, you know? I dunno, maybe Malfoy bargained with him, or . . ." Hermione stopped there, thinking that it was impossible. What would Malfoy bargain with? His money? Everyone knew he lost it all, and his vault was secured by the Ministry, on hold. His father was dead, and his mother was imprisoned also. What would he honestly bargain with?

"Oi! Mum, where's the food!" a loud voice called. The heavy footsteps came closer, and behold! The red head was right in front of Harry and Hermione, now completing the golden trio. Aside from the fact his hair was sticking in different directions in a purposeful way, he too, was also not wearing a shirt. Hermione blushed, and she saw Ron smirk. Smug bastard.

"Ron mate, look at this," said Harry. Harry yawned again and he reached for the toast, dropping the jam knife on the table.

"Mm, what a fine morning this is! Don't you think so, 'Mione?" asked Ron as he came near her and kissed her cheek. His lips lingered there for a few seconds longer, a very dark blush starting to creep up her cheeks a few moments after. He gave her a soft pat on the shoulder and sat down next to her.

Hermione and Ron had been going strong for a year and a half now. Their relationship was soft and playful, and they still bickered like old times. Minus the making up afterwards; a lot of making up. However, when the two wouldn't fight, she felt something . . . missing. It was as if the fighting was part of their relationship. It was the fire. It was their passion. The lust.

But Hermione was afraid. She wasn't the best looking girl out there. And, according to her calculations, they were both very young and had several more years before they settled down. Hermione wasn't sure how quick people in the Wizard world married, but she knew the way of the Muggles. Still, Hermione was going to hold on, finally getting her chance to punish Ron on his lack of respect for her over the several years.

She loved punishing Ron.

"Ron, look at the paper, you idiot." Reluctantly, Ron reached over and got the paper, finishing a lot later than Harry and Hermione. Hermione noticed that although Harry had some ounce of surprise, Ron was . . . passive. His eyes didn't widen as they should've. After he was done, he calmly put the paper back on the table, and resumed eating his eggs. Harry and Hermione gave each other looks.

"Well?" Hermione inquired.

Ron stopped eating and swallowed, deliberately taking his time. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "It's . . . understandable," he finally said.

"'Understandable'? Ron, this is Malfoy we're talking about. Do you remember anything?" Hermione threw out. She was shocked at his response, to say the least.

"Look, Dad told me a few things. He heard some office talk, and well, I think it's safe to say that it's understandable," Ron supplied. He resumed eating his breakfast, acting as if nothing was going on. Hermione sat still. Really still; she had to get answers now. Hermione Granger wasn't a bloody know-it-all for no reason.

She raised her eyebrows at Ron; he, in return, ignored her back. Hermione desperately glanced at Harry, and he just shrugged. Shrugged, for Merlin's sake!

"Ron! Come on, you sod! What's going on? What's his punishment?" She tugged at his arm as hard as she could. Ron sat still, suddenly very interested in the butter knife. When he wasn't responding, she leaned forward, bringing a small, soft hand to his knee. She honestly hated doing this, but facts and personal experience told her guys were naturally horny. Hermione leaned forward, brought her lips to his ear and whispered, "Please?" Ron jerked a little and Harry snorted.

"Nope not a chance," said Ron, and he went for seconds.

"Ron!" Hermione said, hurt, as she leaned back in her chair. She was upset to say the least. She'd show him sooner or later!

"Ron, mate, just tell us? Since when did you want to keep Malfoy's secret?" Harry questioned. Harry yawned for the third time already and took a drink from his glass.

"Well, Dad said that whatever they were using, it was . . . intense. Very dark magic is what he heard. I dunno what it is and neither can anyone else, but they sure have been mum about it," Ron said. Harry and Hermione were intent on listening to Ron, and for a split second, Hermione saw a glimmer of pride.

"And?" Harry pushed.

"Hey, I'm not your owl post, am I? I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." Ron grinned.

Hermione brought her hand up and smacked him in his arm. "Ron! Now!"

"Woman, calm down. I already told you: I. Don't. Know. Everything. Now, would you mind giving me the jam, Harry?"

* * *

It was late at night, and everyone in the Burrow were quietly sitting outside, watching the deep, dark night. The golden trio was there, along with George, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, and Charlie. Bill and Fleur had come also, along with Percy and his new girlfriend. The whole Weasley clan was complete.

Minus the aching loss of Fred.

It was hard, really; for any family. It was so sudden, so sick, so . . . so not what one expected. He was the soul of the family, especially for George. George lost a part of himself, and it was terrible to see him like that. He was the one who took Fred's death the hardest, immersing himself in deep depression. It wasn't until recently that George had started shaping up with the help of everyone.

In fact, it wasn't just George who suffered a major loss, and the Weasley family certainly wasn't the only one to feel that kind of pain. There were countless of families, searching for their loved ones. The Ministry had set up a watch list for those who were still missing or those who wanted to contact their missing member.

The first few months were total chaos. Lamont Diedrich unanimously chose himself to be the minister, chucking everyone to Azkaban and not even pausing to send people to the Dementors. Finally, the Order stepped in, knocking him off his high horse, and Kingsley was thus elected. There were occasional uprisings from those who were still claimed to be loyal to the Dark Lord, but teams of Aurors were able to tamper the resistances.

In the middle of Reconstruction, as the media dubbed it, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were thrust into the spotlight. People came to Harry, praising him, and acting as if he was God. He refused to sign autographs and instead chose to give a large amount of his money to those who lost theirs. It took every ounce for Harry to forever stay away from the Wizard world; thus, he had spent most his time in the Burrow.

As Hermione sat and thought all about this, she wasn't aware that Molly was talking to her, asking about going back to school.

"Hermione, Minerva and I were talking about school, and we were wondering if you and Harry wanted to go back? You are, after all, old enough to make your own decision," said Molly as casually as she could. The whole porch suddenly became very quiet, and only the music coming from the crickets was heard.

How wonderful! Hermione thought. She was desperately longing to bury herself in Hogwarts library, immersing in the dusty caldron of books. Hermione wanted to go to the Ministry somehow, and possibly work for elf rights, but she obviously needed an education. And there was no harm in going, right? Besides, McGonagall - Headmistress McGonagall - probably arranged something rather nice for the "eighth" years.

Ron spit out his drink from his mouth, and Harry sheepishly grinned. Hermione beamed, but chose not to make a big display. As much as she wanted to go back, she wasn't sure if she absolutely wanted to.

"Mum, why are Harry and Hermione allowed to choose and not me?" asked Ron angrily. Hermione looked up at Ron in confusion.

"Well, here goes another yelling match," George muttered under his breath.

"You are my son and you are going to finish school because it is right to do so! Stop being stubborn," Molly huffed back. "Besides, it's for the better, Ron," she said soothingly.

Ginny, who was unusually quiet today, stood up and said, "If Harry's not going, then I'm not going. Or better yet, if Ron is not going, then neither am I." Everyone looked at her for a few seconds and returned their attention to Molly and Ron, ignoring her plea.

Ron and Ginny mouths opened simultaneously, and were arguing loudly with Arthur and Molly, each claiming that they were not going to school. The spectators got out from the porch and went inside, ignoring the shouts. Harry and Hermione stayed, hoping to get a chance to talk. Hermione clamped her ears shut, wondering when Ron's voice had gotten exceptionally loud.

She finally had enough. "Shut it! Please, can we talk about this in a full and proper way?" She stared awkwardly at Arthur and Molly. Hermione sighed and sat back in her chair.

"Mum, I don't want to go. M-maybe I can help George with the shop, hmm? It'll help him and maybe, I dunno, I can get a job at the Ministry later," explained Ron. Ron finally sighed and sat down next to Hermione, wrapping one strong arm on her shoulder.

Hermione's heart dropped. Did Ron not want her? Was he bored of her already? What exactly did this mean? Ron wasn't the smartest person, but he wasn't the dumbest person either. He was doing perfectly fine at school, and Hermione would be more than willingly to oblige and help him if he needed.

The warm, summer air suddenly began to feel a lot hotter and Hermione wanted to leave. She didn't like the way the conversation was going. Slightly easing herself from Ron's grasp, Hermione took a peek at Molly and Arthur, hoping that some facial expression would tell her that Ron was going to school no matter what.

But she got nothing.

"Fine, Ron can work with George, but I'm not going! I hate school! There's so much bloody work to do," Ginny added. Hermione raised her eyebrow and Ginny, knowing that Ginny's fight was futile.

Ron snorted. "Ginny, don't use that kind of language," Arthur admonished. He took a sip from his wine glass, taking one long look at the night. "Well, this old man needs his rest. Coming, love?" he asked, while dropping a loving kiss on his wife's cheek. Hermione blushed. Public display of affection always made her a little squeamish. She felt Ron's arm snake back to her shoulders, gently urging her to come closer. She relented, but suddenly feeling the closeness too much to handle.

Molly nodded, and turned her attention back to the kids. "Ginny, you are going to school no matter what. No buts, and that's final. As for you . . . three, I think you can decide for yourselves," she added unwillingly. Hermione noticed she said 'three' as opposed to Harry and Hermione.

And that made her heart sink.

* * *

"Ron, I don't know why you have to be so stubborn! Why can't you just go! I mean, there's nothing wrong with going! I'll be there," Hermione added in a last desperate attempt. She was in Ron's room, fervently pacing back and forth. Harry had hastily retreated to be with Ginny. The lights were dim and distant, but one could see a very large mane coming out of the Gryffindor witch. Her robes went tumbled forward as they tried to catch up with Hermione's pacing.

"Say something!"

Ron sighed, leaning fully back into his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Hermione," he began softly, "I'll always be here. Just because I don't want to does not mean that I-I don't . . . l-love you," finished Ron. "I do."

Hermione stopped her pacing. Her heart ceased to beat and she felt the air suck out of her system. Did Ron just say that he loved her?

During the course of their friendship, it was a known fact that despite the fights and the yelling, she and Ron were meant to be. Sure, in their young, foolish way, they had dismissed those thoughts, but the feelings soon became real. And then they began to date, hug and kiss as they were meant to be.

But never did they say 'I love you' to each other. In all the hours they fooled around, played around, they had never said those three holy words. It was an unspoken consent that they did love each other in some odd way, but it was never solid.

Now that Ron had said something so bloody sacred (for Hermione at least), it made her feel a little apprehensive. What did this exactly mean? Did this mean that she had to give everything up now? Did she have to say anything back? Was this the breaking moment?

"Hermione," Ron started, effectively cutting out her thoughts. He was still lying in bed, now propped on her elbow. He looked at her sadly, but smiling at the same time. "You don't have to answer . . . yet. Just come to bed, hmm? Everything will be alright." He again smiled, and Hermione saw the desperation in his eyes.

She felt horrible for even thinking all that. Maybe she and Ron would get through this. He could always visit, and then there was Christmas, her birthday, and . . . It would all be OK. Perhaps for once, she could not use her logical side and think through her heart. Hermione gave a slight nod, and slowly came forward. She lifted the warm, soft blanket and tucked herself in, her back facing him. She left Ron relax next to her as he wrapped a loose arm around her waist. Her insides twisted, which usually did when they were in this intimate position. Now knowing how Ron really felt, everything seemed more enhanced. Yes, enhanced was the word.

They lay there, each sucked in their own thoughts. Hermione felt her eyes giving in, and she snuggled deeper inside the blanket, keeping the warmth inside.

"Bloody hell Hermione, you're feet are cold!"

Maybe she wasn't going to sleep after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco tumbled out of an old, raggedy fireplace. It was dark and the place smelled of shit. Like piss and smoke and old people. He coughed, dust surrounding him in unimaginable ways. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Come on," said Draco's bodyguard. Kingsley had already stepped out of the fireplace. Draco's feet were rooted on the floor until he felt a sharp tug. The large man who was dragging him stepped out of the fireplace, Draco in tow. He tumbled a few times, still unable to see anything.

They continued to walk, now stepping into a hallway. It was considerably brighter. Draco could hear a distant banging of some sort. The rhythmic sound was oddly calming, and for a split second, the sharp pull from his punishment died down a bit. He could finally relax. There was also the smell of the ocean, the sea salt enveloping his nostrils.

"Ow, watch it you!" Draco cut out arrogantly. His bodyguard was pulling him, making him trip along the way. The big man only grunted in response. Draco was surprised at the fact that he could still act haughty, considering his current state. Nonetheless, he followed, his welfare being his only concern as opposed to his curiosity.

Draco's limp legs carried him for Merlin knew how long, and they were again thrust into another room. There was a shabby desk and some clothes on the window sill. The room was tiny and dirty. There were, however, medals and certificates hanging on the wall, and it seemed like someone actually lived here. He shook his head, really wondering now where the hell he was.

"Kingsley." Draco heard. The voice was deep and grumpy; he had a feeling the man was fat, portly person. Sure enough, when Draco turned around, he was greeted with a very large man. He was tall, and one could certainly tell where his muscles were. He was dressed in military attire, all grey, with medals stuck on his left shoulder. He had dark brown hair, and a typical military mustache.

"Abendroth," Kingsley responded. Kingsley smiled at Abendroth and took out his hand to shake his. Draco curiously stared at their interaction; the two men seemed to like each other, and Draco vaguely wondered if Abendroth was German. He looked like it.

"Drink, anyone?" Abendroth asked. His black boots were heavy on the floor, and it annoyed Draco. Abendroth went over to his desk, if you could call it that, and sat down, his chair making a squeaking sound. The German man took off his hat and ran his large fingers through his hair. There was a skinny, pink scar starting from his brow, running down to his cheek. Draco watched him in disdain.

"No, thank you. We just wanted to bring him here, and get everything sorted," Kingsley said. In his peripheral vision, Draco saw that Kingsley nervously shuffled his feet; the movement was fast and done quick, but Draco's sharp eyes caught it. Why was Kingsley shuffling his feet?

Get everything sorted? What exactly was he talking about?

Then it clicked.

Draco gulped and he was now realizing what was going on. He finally looked out the dingy window, seeing the roaring sea for the first time and the laborers hard at work. The pajamas on the window sill were for him. Before he was going back to Hogwarts, if he was going back to Hogwarts, he was going to work as a laborer.

Shit.

As fear mounted on Draco, Abendroth motioned for Draco to come forward. The burly man behind Draco pushed him, and Draco stumbled onward to the German man. Draco's hands and feet were bound, and he looked up, nervous and downright scared. I thought I was going back to school, he thought frantically. They can't leave me here.

Well, they did anyway.

* * *

Disgusting.

He was screwed. Draco was currently standing in the middle of Abendroth's office with a pair of dirty stripped pajamas. They smelled like someone had dumped it inside Moby Dick's huge stomach, made him throw up, and dumped back inside until someone told Moby Dick to spit it back out, again, because Draco Malfoy needed the damn suit.

Fucking hell.

Draco was going to piss in his pants, although he hoped he wouldn't. A thin man came, not too long ago, and searched him, his hands going to places on Draco's body where they shouldn't have. Draco wanted to kill him. He could've sworn that he saw the nasty person smirk occasionally. Draco wished he had his wand. But . . . he was fairly good at nonverbal spells, and it wouldn't matt–

He fell down, clutching his chest. His chest constricted around the devil's mark, as Draco called it, clutching so hard and tight to his skin that it made it impossible for him to breathe. Draco fought hard not to scream bloody murder but a tiny, aggravated cry escaped him. His whole body shook, sweat was rolling down his face, and he was now curled into a tight ball.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

"Alright there, son?" Anbendroth's footsteps came nearer until Draco could see a faint outline of his boots. Draco's harsh breathing subdued somewhat, but he was still stuck in a firm ball. His perfect blond hair was covering his face, no longer holding their previous arrogant position.

"Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes." Abendroth began to whistle. Draco wanted to kick him in the balls.

Two minutes or perhaps ten went by, and Draco was now able to stand. He was shaking uncontrollably and he felt impossibly weak. Draco kept a strong hold on the chair. Occasionally, his knees would buckle underneath him, but he would be able to hold himself together.

"W-why am I here?" he asked between deep intakes of oxygen. _Hold yourself together, you prick! You've been through much worse._

Abendroth took out a cigar from his desk drawer, deliberately taking his time, savoring each puff. He leaned forward and blew one straight in Malfoy's face. Draco winced.

Abendroth smirked, a sigh following. "You will be going back to Hogwarts, but until then, this will be your new home. Kingsley's not that stupid; did you really think he was going deprive you of your real punishment experience?" The German man chuckled a little, seeing how sacred Draco looked.

Draco thought it was high time to talk back. He needed Kingsley now! Who did this German person think he was? "So I'm supposed to wear this shit clothing this whole fuck—"

The pain that came now was not from where he expected, but rather, on his jaw. Draco yelped as the desk was shoved against him and he fell down. He now realized his mistake: never underestimate a German man's ability to beat you up.

As Draco tried to soothe his new pain, Abendroth came forward, picked Draco up by the collar, and shoved him up against the wall. Abendroth's face was a mere inch away from Malfoy's. His dark brown eyes burned into Draco's steel ones. Draco tired to wriggle free, but the old man held him stronger.

"Now listen to me, you little fucker: Don't you ever say anything like that. When I tell you to answer me, you will fucking answer me. When I tell you shut it, you will fucking shut it. Don't you dare speak to me that way," he spat out. Abendroth was spitting all over Draco's face and the cigar smell overwhelmed him. Draco's heart was beating frantically, seeing how serious this was. It wasn't a game.

"From now on, you will address me as 'Lieutenant'; got it?" Lieutenant Abendroth released the poor boy, giving him one last filthy look.

Draco definitely got it.

* * *

They wrote his name down, gave him a number, and gave him the worst bed to sleep in. It creaked and the wood looked like it was decaying, not to mention there was a faint yellow spot in the middle of the bed. He was then taken to a little shack and had his beautiful locks shaved off. Blankets of blond fell down, and for the first time ever, Draco saw how much he had lost. He had lost his dignity, his self-respect, for what? Draco mused that his blond hair was his only source of identification; that yes, he was and is a Malfoy, and was and is something.

But even that was taken away. Even his beautiful blond locks.

* * *

The wind was roaring, the clouds were the deepest grey he had ever seen, and wet drops splashed on his cheeks. It was cold, and despite the (rather nasty) wool coat he had on, he was shivering like a little school girl. He hadn't recovered from his last attack, and he was still feeling weak. Draco idly wondered when this was all going to end, but a small voice in the back of his head told him that it was his entire fault.

Since when did the Malfoys carry heavy burdens?

Never mind; scratch that out.

"Oi! Get your motherfucking arse moving! Now!" An officer kicked Draco behind his back, and he fell forward, getting himself together before he fully humiliated himself. He gritted his teeth together, debating whether or not he should back talk. But as Draco peered up into the sight in front of him, really seeing the harsh conditions of the prisoners, the muck, the same exact shaved heads . . . He should have gotten his motherfucking arse moving and running along a long time ago.

A long time ago.

Way back in the past.


	4. Chapter 4

_Tap, tap, tap._

Let me sleep.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Goodness! Two more minutes; can't you wait?

_Bang!_

"Hermione! It's eleven! Get up!" rang Ginny's voice. Hermione's coffee colored eyes widened. Ginny came forth, barging in, and causing a ruckus. "Up, up, up!"

"For fucks sake, Ginny, leave me alone! I'm bloody tired," Hermione threw out. She had a major headache due to the drinking binge she had last night in Ron's room, which consisted of Ron passing out, George calling his mum "a fat lard," and Harry heavily making out with Ginny in front of Molly.

Ginny tsked her and said, "Aren't you supposed to go to Diagon Alley and getting school supplies? And swearing in the wee hours of the morning is not good for your health. Now up!"

The bushy haired Gryffindor groaned, her head pounding and her mouth feeling as if sand had been shoved down her throat. The sunlight wasn't helping at all, and she buried herself deeper in the sheets. Diagon Alley could wait.

Just when Hermione was feeling comfortable, a gust of wind swept through, leaving Hermione shivering and very moody from the lack of her warm, soft blanket. Hermione got up a little too fast, causing a wave of unsteadiness to her. "Give it back!"

"They're my sheets! And, this is my room. Now up!" To prove a point, Ginny went out the door and slammed it shut. Hermione's head started to spin, and she really wanted to smack Ginny. Plus, it didn't help that it was that time of month. She was going to be very moody indeed.

Grudgingly, she got up, and another round of dizziness swept over her. Her stomach lurched at the smell of the food being made downstairs. Gingerly, Hermione kept her stomach still as she began to walk towards the loo. This is a bad idea, she thought.

As Hermione shut the door behind her, she looked up and inspected last night's damage. Dark circles covered the underneath of her eyes, leaving her looking distraught and completely hung-over. The bushy mane had gotten even wilder during the night. Now scared of her appearance, Hermione splashed cold water on her face, soothing the worry lines.

Hermione could hear the shouts and the arguments already in the morning. Despite her parched mouth, she was suddenly eager to get something shoved down her throat. Step by step, and cautiously that was, she went down, the talking getting louder. Now somewhat remembering what had happened last night, Hermione was downright afraid to come face to face with Molly.

She stuck her head out, checking to see if the coast was clear. The table was empty, although there was food on it. Only thing was, nobody was sitting down, save for Arthur and Harry. Upon further inspection, she found Ron, George, and Ginny lined up, staring straight ahead. Their clothing was prim and proper. To the left of George, Molly was standing with her arms crossed, her lips pursed and her face down right beet red.

"This kind of behavior is not accepted, do you understand? Calling your mother a-a 'fat lard' is extremely rude! Not to mention getting drunk out of your mind in my house! From now 'til the end of summer, you will make amends to me, whether you like it or not." Molly's shrill voice stopped. Her chest was heaving up and down in sheer anger.

"Now just a minute, Mom – we were just having some fun, alright? I mean—" Ron began.

"Fun!" Molly broke out. She angrily fumbled with her pocket and pulled out a thin, white rolled up paper.

"This is fun to you?" she asked, shaking the spliff in front of Ron, her face turning purple now. His eyes got wide, and then made a disbelieving sound.

"Believe me, I didn't do it—"

"Ah, good times last night. These Muggles make the most wonderful contraptions," George rang out. He was smiling as if he were running down memory lane. "Dad, what's this called?"

Arthur, who had long been deprived of his Muggle profession, happily straightened his back, getting ready to lecture. "Well, it is a curious little thing. You see—"

"ENOUGH! I have simply had enough! No more parties, no more drinking, and everyone goes to bed at ten, with no exceptions!" She flicked the spliff out the window and smacked her hands on the kitchen counter. She fumed for another minute, her breathing going in and out rather fast. During this time, however, Ron and George's stomachs rumbled. Ginny, being the sweet girl she was, kept silent. Although she tried unsuccessfully to smother her giggle.

"Oh, for goodness sake, go and eat," Molly said unwillingly. Exuberantly, George and Ron went to the table, Ginny in tow. They acted as if nothing happened, considering the way the boys were wolfing their food.

Timidly, Hermione moved away from her threshold. "Ah, Hermione; I was wondering where you were," greeted Molly. Despite the fact she was yelling a mere three minutes ago, she seemed genuinely happy.

"Morning, everyone." Hermione sat down next to Ginny while getting some toast for herself. Having heard Mrs. Weasley yell at her kids for being irresponsible, Hermione thought she should say something. After all, she had participated.

"Mrs. Weasley, I think it's only fair that I get punished also. I-I mean, I was drinking also, and—"

"Oh! What nonsense! Please don't bother yourself with this. I already had to explain to Harry already, so don't you worry!" she said. Molly paused, sliding her eyes down to her three redheads. "You three, on the other hand . . ."

"Are the best fucking kids you ever had!" George slammed his fist on the table, grinning from ear to ear.

Everyone waited for Molly to scold George for swearing. "Fucking right, my boy" was all they heard from the corner of the table. Six pair of eyes moved simultaneously to face the oblivious eyes of Arthur. He shrugged nonchalantly. "What? It's true."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

"I need nine goat—Ginny, look at this! It says I need nine pieces of 'goat droppings!' Am I taking Potions or what?" Everything in Diagon Alley was nothing like it was before, and she was just mad for no reason. Goat droppings; really? There were only three uses for them, and she had to spend all her money on nine goat droppings because her Potions class required it.

"Hermione, lighten up. All you've been doing is complaining and complaining. C'mon, we're all shopping," said Ginny. "Be happy!" she sang, spinning around in a circle as she did so.

All Hermione could do was roll her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't want to buy new items for school, but Diagon Alley was not Diagon Alley anymore. It was a barren wasteland, filled with empty streets and empty people. Most of the shops were ruined, but only a few were put together. There were several people out in the streets, hungry and tired, their raggedy clothing showing how much of a battle they put up with.

She felt guilty buying all this nonsense when someone else needed the money. She hated going out for school supplies when there were hardly any stores to buy anything in the first place. She hated how everyone was thinking everything was all dandy and fine when it wasn't. There was such a huge mess and no one was bothering to at least help. For being one of the most famous witches, Hermione felt useless. She could be using her power and influence to help in some way.

Harry did not come with them because every time he went out, he would be bombarded with people and cameras. So, for now, it was just Ron, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, along with Ginny.

"Ginny, just leave 'Mione alone," said Ron from behind. Out of the corner of Hermione's eye, she saw Ron form the words 'It's that time of the month' to Ginny. Twat. Just because it was the time of the month didn't mean anything. Wasn't she allowed to be upset anyway because of what was in front of her?

"Ron, what the hell do you know about that time of the month? Haven't you thought maybe seeing this once happy place is making me upset? Or how about the fact that you're not coming to Hogwarts with me?" Thankfully, no one was in sight. Ginny and her parents had fallen behind. Hermione stopped walking, tears threatening to fall. Oh, bugger. There would be no stopping now.

All the stress and worry Hermione had accumulated was getting to her. Nothing was going to help. She felt like shit. She was tired and sad and plain mad, all mixed in one. Hermione was confused with her emotions.

Clutching Hermione's books in one hand, Ron came closer and rested a soothing hand on her shoulder. He smiled slightly, but it was a bit blurred due to the lingering tears in Hermione's eyes. "Hermione, don't worry. We've already worked this out; I'll visit you all the time, and we can go to Hogsmeade, and it'll be all right. I mean, I think we're a pretty good couple, if you get what I'm saying, really." The hand that was resting on Hermione's shoulder left, went to Ron's pocket, and retrieved a pastry. A silly grin was plastered on his face. "Want one?"

Anger bubbled forth. Hermione's eyes stung even more; not from sadness, but from rage. Everything would not be all right. She was going to be in school, and Ron would be doing God knows what. The fact Ron was leaving her reminded her of a certain event from not too long ago. He had promised that he would be there for her—for both of them, but instead, he had bolted for selfish reasons. She remembered feeling empty and gone, only having the comfort of the dingy tent and Harry's soothing words. Even the damn locket brought some sense of security during that time.

"No."

* * *

"Hermione, do you have everything ready?" asked Molly. She tugged on her woolen robes nervously, smiling as she did so.

Hermione looked around at everything, seeing all the packed bags were good to go inside the car. "Yes, Mrs. Weasley."

She was going to visit her parents for the first time this summer for three weeks. She knew she was being unfair to them, and so she had decided to go. Hermione was planning on staying at the Burrow for another week, but some things couldn't wait.

It wasn't that Hermione just suddenly wanted to leave; she had meaning to visit her parents all summer. But now she had the overwhelming urge to just . . . go. She was cooped up in this Wizarding drama and she wanted to relax. Her parents had promised to take her to South of France, and she was excited to say the least.

But there were other causes as well.

The wind blew over, causing Hermione's hair to become a mane again. Everyone had said their good-byes—only Harry, Ron, and Molly were outside. Arthur was already in the car, waiting for Hermione. She could have gone through the Floo Network, but Arthur insisted on driving.

"Well, I'll see you at school then, Hermione," said Harry. He smiled as he came nearer, wrapping his strong arms around Hermione's thin frame. She hugged him back fiercely, trying to convey how much she cared for him. Eventually, Harry let go, and Ron slowly stepped forward.

Much to his credit, he kept a strong face. He came gradually, testing the waters and their emotions. He rested half a foot away from Hermione, not bothering to come closer. The sunlight made his orange hair even brighter; his eyes were squinting to block out the light.

"Bye, Hermione."

She swallowed, not trusting herself to look up at Ron. She felt tears gather around her eyes, and now she really wanted to kick herself. This wasn't a final good-bye. They were going to meet each other very soon. Ron had promised her he would visit often and take her to Hogsmeade. He said he loved her.

So why did it feel like it was a final good-bye?

You could say she bolted. You could say she ran off like she was getting chased by Voldemort himself. And instead of being the mature, smart person she was, she left without another word, silently shutting the ancient car door, and watching Ronald Weasley disappear through the side mirrors.


	5. Chapter 5

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three . . .

"How many more days I got left, Malfoy?" asked Allen. His unruly red hair was covered in mud while his freckled face somehow managed to stay clean. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, earning a new streak of goo on his Irish face.

Draco sighed and threw the shovel down. He looked up into the deep, dark sky, a couple of rain drops landing on his face. He looked and looked and looked; looking for a break in the clouds to tell him this was all a dream. That he wasn't shoveling the Goddamn earth, smelling like a pile of heap, wishing he was back at home, under the cover of comfort of his mother and father.

"I'm not sure, mate," he replied, too tired to say anything.

"How many more days have _you_ got left, eh?"

Malfoy raised his head and peered into the smiling Allen, responding with a timid smile of his own; why hadn't he tried to smile when he wasn't in a labor camp? "I dunno, you tell me," said Draco. As usual, he waited for Allen to tell him the precise day, hour, and minute he was going to leave. But he didn't.

"It's three weeks, lass. But it goes on much longer than that."

Draco glanced at the scar on his arm, fading but still there. And then he glimpsed on the inside of his shirt, staring at the cursed thing, realizing Allen was right. It did go on much longer than the sentence.

Then, the cursed thing started to burn, twisting and turning his skin into something horrid, and making him scream bloody murder, all the while causing the poor boy to be the laughingstock for another day. Except, it wasn't something to laugh at.

* * *

"Oh, yeah, right there. Mmm . . ." Draco heard. His eyes snapped open, wondering where the source of noise was coming from.

"Fuck yes," he heard again. He looked up at the rotting wood on top of him, willing for the person sleeping next to him to get rid of his naughty dreams.

"That feels so good, baby . . . ."

That was it. Draco needed to wake him up before he humiliated himself further.

Draco sat up, his yellow blanket still covering him. He turned his head to the side and reached his hand out, hitting somebody on their head. "Hey, Wonders – wake up." Draco blindly hit Wonders again, but he continued to make more noises. Damn it, now Draco really had to get up.

He threw his covers aside, shaking off his drowsiness as fast as he could. The morning bell was going to ring soon, and he liked being one of the first to wake up; there was less rush. He walked less than a step before he could see Wonders face, his eyes closed in sweet madness, his hand underneath his blanket. Draco was so used to this he didn't even bother laughing anymore.

The slap was loud and Wonders instantly woke up. "Huh – what? W-what's going on?" Wonders asked groggily. His eyes met up with Draco's bored ones. "Why do you always bitch slap me early in the morning, huh?"

"Because you're always wanking your brains out, and I'm saving you some embarrassment," Draco explained. He calmly crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the exact moment Wonders would find out.

"Oh, Merlin." He made a face, looking down at his sheet. "Can you tell me, again, why my hand is on my bollocks?"

He pondered whether or not he should even try to answer, but decided to ask another question instead. "Is there a reason why people call you Wonders?"

Wonders released (somewhat unwillingly) his poor hand from underneath his blanket and smiled sheepishly. "Because I happen to do wonders on women . . . But they're mostly in my dreams," he added truthfully, glancing around the area. He looked up at Draco wistfully. "There's only so much you can wank before you want to go all gay, y'know?"

Draco laughed for the first time in days and said, "No, I wouldn't know."

* * *

It was slimy, disgusting, and it made awkward sounds every time it plopped on the dingy plate. The spoon was slightly rusty, but Draco could make out the shape of his face on the utensil. His hand resting on his chin, Draco twisted the spoon back and forth, staring at it aimlessly. Finally resigning with a sigh, he brought the spoon to the retched oatmeal, even dipping it inside the substance, but found he could not bring it up to his lips.

"It's not that bad once you eat it," said the man beside him. Draco turned his head to the side, staring at Skinny with no purpose. Skinny was Draco's "roommate". He slept on the top bunk while Draco slept on the bottom. He was the only person who had bothered to even talk to Draco for the past couple of weeks. Skinny had a small group of friends, and they (sort of) graciously let Draco in their entourage, which consisted of Allen and Wonders.

Once Draco had stepped inside the confines of the camp, everyone knew who he was. It was impossible not to. The Malfoys used to be the most decorated family; now, shame and misfortune shadowed what the Malfoys really were.

(They most definitely weren't rotten Death Eaters.)

Draco was subjected to harsh treatment from the other laborers. They taunted him, spat at him, made sure he didn't forget where he was. Also, it just so happened everyone knew about Draco's punishment. How, he didn't know. But they did, and it was extremely uncomfortable to go on throughout the day. It didn't help that after digging the Norwegian dirt he would become extremely tired. After hours when everyone was asleep, Draco would inspect the metal stuck on his chest. It seemed like it used Draco's energy to sustain itself. No wonder he was always exhausted come nighttime.

Draco had enemies from the moment he stepped in. It wasn't a very nice thought to begin with. But Draco kept his head down and focused his time on counting how many days he had left, acting like the poor, sick child.

As for Skinny, he was, well - skinny. Tall, yes, but lanky and had bones pointing in different directions. His hair stuck all over the place, just like his calcium, and he had a toothy grin that made anyone laugh. He was nice to Draco, something he wasn't accustomed too.

"It's utter shit," Draco replied, smashing his spoon into the mixture of Merlin knows what. "It smells like Big Da's fucking armpits." Draco sighed, resting his head on his arm and pushing the plate aside.

Big Da was the largest man on campus. He was burly and portly, but underneath all of his fat, there was muscle. He had tattoos inked all over his body, and a couple of piercings here and there. He was feared among the laborers, and nobody messed with him. On top of that, Big Da made the food. Apparently, he used to be a cook, and so he brought his expertise to the camp. He and his hand full of followers took over the stove, making horrible breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Big Da was a bald man, and he could be gracious whenever he wanted to.

But that was very, very seldom.

"I mean, c'mon, look at this! It seems like he collected all of our crap and mixed it with wheat." Draco looked down at the food with disdain and continued. "Really, how can you eat this?" Draco's arrogant side was coming on full force, not bothering to stop. He was actually having some fun.

Skinny's eyes were wide and expanded as much as they could. He was ghostly pale, not to mention he was completely still. Draco frowned at him; he was slightly aware that the whole kitchen was quiet. Skinny captured Draco's attention, mouthing the words he's right behind you.

Fuck.

" 'Ello mate. Likin' the food now, are we? Or do have somethin' else to say 'bout it?"

Draco slowly turned his head around, gulping as he did so. If he was back in Hogwarts, he would have been the one who would come up to people and threaten him. He would have been ruling Hogwarts walls, soon becoming Head fucking Boy. But instead, he was stuck in his pot hole for another two weeks, and until then, he would have to suffer the wrath of Big Da.

"H-hello," he said, being as polite as he could, but shaking inside. "How are you?" Big Da towered over him, his nostrils flaring. Prick #1 and Prick #2 stood next to Big Da; Prick #1 had a metal spoon in his hand, while Prick #2 had his arms crossed just like Big Da. Big Da flexed his arm muscles, his sleeveless shirt showing off his tattoos and meat. Gulp.

"I's doin' well, thank you very much. Now, you mind tellin' everyone what you said?" Big Da took out his hands and cracked his knuckles. Draco flinched, his heart beating much, much faster. _Think, Draco. Stall. It's the best you can do._

Draco's limp mouth struggled to form a smile. When it did, he said, "I was just telling Skinny how wonderful the, uh," here, Draco tried to come up with some adjective for the pile of shit in front of him, "food you made is. It's great."

Before he could even blink, everyone from Draco's table got up and left while Draco's plate was thrown against the wall. Big Da grabbed him by his dirty prisoner outfit, his face a mere centimeter away from Draco. His opaque blue eyes stared down into Draco's steel greys, his fist tightening even more around Draco's shirt. Draco closed his airway, trying very hard not to let the smell of the nasty man get to him. He failed.

"Don't try to act like a fuckin' big shot, hmm? I told you to tell everyone what you said, so now you will," Big Da threatened. He spat all over Draco's face, and he itched to take out his imaginary handkerchief and wipe his face.

_Think, Draco! Freaking think! What happened to being the smartest person in your year! (Aside from Granger, of course.)_

Draco frowned at that thought while conjuring some words to say. "What I was saying . . ." He trailed off, looking for an outlet to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skinny nod a yes. What did that mean, exactly? Did he want Draco to say the truth? Draco's brows furrowed, and he felt another tug from his shirt. Scared senseless, he peered into Big Da, noticing his large pores and the reeking smell of the disgusting man spitting on his face.

"Hey, Big Da! Piss off, yeah?" Allen called out. Draco noticed that everyone was on the other side of the room, each holding a utensil of some sort. On the other hand, Big Da's cronies were standing next to him. Others, he noticed, had weapons of some sort. What was going on?

Silence.

Shouts erupted. Curses were expelled into the air, each person calling another a horrible name. Draco was pushed to the side, his back hurting from the amount of force. As he examined the hall, he saw everyone beating each other. All he could do was gape at the sight in front of him, getting ready to catalog this memory somewhere in his brain. A full blown riot was unfolding in front of him; the animal inside everyone was unleashed, but Draco was not afraid. It was fucking hilarious.

He stared at the sight in front of him, wondering why the guards weren't doing anything. He saw them on the far corner of the room, a couple handing out coins and others being spectators.

"Cheers, mate!" Allen and Wonders each had a table leg, getting ready to hit Prick #1. On the count of three, Draco's "friends" hit the large man on either side of his head, slapping their hands together when the man fell down.

Draco laughed. It started off as a slow, small chuckle, but eventually, it escalated. The sounds emanating from his chest mingled with a cacophony of other noises – the grunts, the swearing, and the sounds of cheap wood breaking. But for the first time in months, he actually laughed, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders. Until . . .

Until the darkness enveloped him, the warmth making him dizzyingly happy.

"Hey, are you alright . . . ?" he heard before he fell into the depths on unconsciousness.

* * *

Draco sat still, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. His head was pounding, and he could still feel some of the blood coming from his nose; why didn't they use magic to heal him? As he waited, he sat and thought. There was a very slim chance Abendroth would let him go. But then again, he only had three weeks left; all he had to do was keep his head down as he was doing, go about his day, and it would all be over. So it didn't make a difference.

He shook his head in disbelief. Over a year ago, he would have been the king of the world, doing what he did best and refusing to keep his head down. Times had changed.

All of a sudden, Draco began to think of Hogwarts and his classmates. He thought of Goyle, who was rotting away in an Azkaban cell. He felt sorry for him; why, he did not know. Before Draco had left, Goyle called him a coward, spitting at his feet. Draco wasn't hurt emotionally, but he pitied Goyle. Goyle thought he was being a hero, whereas Draco was being a . . .

Coward.

Was it cowardly? Was admitting to his own faults a foolish thing to do? Was it selfish? He wanted to live, no doubt about that. But in all honesty, he didn't feel like he belonged in amongst the Death Eaters. Over time, the Malfoy's lost the respect of those men, and everything went downhill from there. Allegiances didn't matter anymore. What good did it do, anyway? Look where he was at right now!

Allegiances made him think of Potter. Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. Potter, who was probably sitting in a pile of gold, signing autographs while his sidekicks Granger and Weasley sat by his side. He imagined the impossibly thick and stupid red head smiling and nodding, trying to get the same amount of attention as Potter was. And across from him, Granger would be organizing all three of their planners, fussing over how sloppy the boys were, and tossing her bushy hair to the side. She needed a damn brush.

Thinking of Granger made him think of being top in class. Really, Draco had lost it all. He was a prefect. He could have been Head Boy! He would have had the honors of torturing the kids and making fun at them whenever he wanted to. Not only that, he would have been top in his class, earning high awards and getting loads of gifts.

Except Granger would have probably gotten the top honors for being the bloody smartest person in their year. Ugh.

"Mister Malfoy, Mister Malfoy . . . What shall I do with you?"

Draco snapped his head up, staring straight into the deep brown, German eyes of Abendroth. Abendroth was leaning far back in his seat, a cigar stuck in between his teeth, and his feet resting on the desk. A lock of his hair was no longer in its previous arrogant position. Draco was silent.

Abendroth peered into Draco, causing him to squirm under his gaze. Finally, he had enough. "Sir?" he said, trying to coax a response from him. His haughtiness from this morning was still in gear.

That was when Abendroth started to laugh. It was a wheezing sound, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Draco frowned, glancing at his attire to make sure nothing embarrassing was showing. He was still a polished rich boy through and through. He found nothing, of course, and idly wondered why Abendroth was laughing.

"Look at you! If you can't stomach a fuckin' riot, it seems like you can't stay, then."

_What?_

Draco's heart soared. Despite mentally correcting Abendroth's speech (for it was very jumbled and hard to understand) and feeling ashamed for being so weak, he was very excited by the prospect of leaving the damn place. Still, he kept his calm, waiting for the exact moment Abendroth would tell him to get the heck out of here.

But he didn't.

Several minutes passed. Not a sound went by. Abendroth just sat there, facing Draco while he stared at anything else besides the Lieutenant. Panic slowly crept in. Was he ever going to leave? Were they punishing him more? Was Lieutenant making fun of him, getting ready to laugh at his face when he told Draco he was no longer leaving?

"What the hell. Get outta here; I don't want to see your blond ass anymore. I'll have one of the guys pack your things."

It seemed like Abendroth was not making fun of him after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione was bored. She had nothing else to do besides rereading all of her books she needed for school, and staring out the window. Baking cookies with her mum was fun and all, but they took a very long time. Her mother claimed baking cookies was an art.

Of course it was art! Why else would Hermione be eating four or five cookies in a row every two hours?

Right now, Hermione was flipping through her photo album over the past years at Hogwarts. There was a picture of Harry, Ron, and her standing on the balcony in their first year, smiling and nodding with however much enthusiasm a first year had. Next was a clipping of the infamous picture of Harry and Hermione together, taken during the Triwizard Tournament. She did not know why she kept it, but she had been in the newspaper, and well - how could you not want to keep that?

She flipped through a few more pages, and came across a picture taken during her sixth year. It was taken right after her, Harry, and Ron had come back to school. They were in the front of the Great Hall, right before the first breakfast of the new school year. Ron, a head taller than everyone else, was grinning widely, while Harry smiled back humbly, and Hermione's hair somehow managing to get in Harry's face a bit.

An unnecessary lump formed in her throat once she saw Ron.

Hermione instantly began to scold herself for getting all depressed when this was her bloody summer break. What was so hard about spending vacation by herself? She should be having fun, and possibly act like the ditzy new girls at Hogwarts who spent their entire time getting darker.

Just as Hermione was going to shut the book, she saw something very pale poking at the edge of the photograph. She paused, waiting for the image to appear again. Upon further inspection, she saw the mysterious pale thing was Malfoy.

She laughed at the absurdity of it. How did Malfoy manage to end up in her photo album without her knowing for at least three years? She glanced at the picture again, realizing he was rolling his eyes and sneering at the trio. Hermione smiled.

But she quickly stopped, remembering exactly what Malfoy was going through. Instantly, she burned with shame. The Malfoy's weren't bad people; they just made idiotic decisions. Everyone knew they switched sides at the very last minute, so it was customary that Hermione should be the least bit sympathetic. She forgot about Malfoy until now, peering at his smooth and suave posture, his angular face jeering at his adversaries.

"Hermione!"

She jumped at her father's voice. "Damn," Hermione muttered in the middle of dropping the album on the floor. She glanced one more time at Malfoy's distant figure, not sure what the make of it.

"Hermione! This bloody bird is here! Shoo!"

Her father had a fear of any kind of bird. He hated the owls that came to deliver her mail. Hermione came down the steps, walking down and being greeted with a lovely, brown owl. The owl was perched on the dinner table, quietly humming; her father was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello." The owl hooted quietly, its warm eyes smiling, his head tilting to the side. Meredith, Hermione's mother, stood in the kitchen making – yet again - another batch of cookies. She gave a quick smile and resumed her earlier ministrations. Hermione went to retrieve the parcel from the owl. She set a few snacks for the owl while she opened the letter.

There was a Hogwarts seal on the letter, and Hermione's heartbeat quickened. She had already received her letter for school supplies, so what else could it be?

Oh, who was she kidding? There was a very good chance she got the position of Head Girl.

And she did.

"Mum! Dad! I just got Head Girl!"

Hermione jumped and squealed at the shiny new badge displayed in front of her. Excitement coursed through her, and if it was possible, her hair sizzled due to the electricity coming out of her body. She jumped around some more, the owl staring at her with rapt attention, her mother smothering her with kisses and cookie batter.

"Oh, Hermione, I'm so happy for you! We need to celebrate!" Meredith released her daughter, beaming as she did so.

"I think it's time for some champagne, yeah?" Hermione's father called out from the living room. Hermione chuckled, and seeing that the owl was done eating, she released him, telling her father it was alright to come back to the kitchen.

"Where exactly is the bottle? Meredith, find the glasses, dear." Her father, William, bustled about. "Where is it?"

"Dad, I can help you–" Hermione began, slowly walking over. Her father stopped her before Hermione could take another step.

"You will do no such thing. Sit, Hermione. You need a nice break, and we," he said, emphasizing the we, "are going to make these next few days free of stress! This is a grand achievement!" William pushed her down on the nearest chair.

She was awfully glad they weren't in Australia, having no clue who Hermione Granger was.

And she smiled at that thought.

* * *

A couple days later, her parents threw her a party.

Of course, none of the guests knew exactly what it was for, but they came nonetheless, smiling and showing off their perfect British teeth, their lips already tainted from the wine. She didn't know who half the people were, but she acted like the prim and proper lady her parents taught her to be.

There was a boy at the party.

Well, there was one particular boy, and the rest seemed to be friends with him. So yes, he was the only boy at the party.

He was tall, a bit tan from the summer sun, his blond hair artfully tousled. From afar, Hermione could see his twinkling green eyes. He had a throaty laugh, and every time he spoke, he would shuffle his feet, acting shy. He wasn't like the other boys from Hogwarts.

When dessert was over and Hermione was done helping her mother, she went upstairs to clean herself. She had a feeling she looked like a mess, but when she peered into the non-magic mirror of her upstairs washroom, she looked pretty. Not gorgeous, obviously, but her hair was nicely done, and the makeup made her look younger, fuller, curvy, tasteful.

Her mother was a genius.

Hermione applied more nude lipstick, running it back and forth smoothly, thinking about nothing important. When she was done, she dropped the tube back in the drawer, smacking her lips and puckering them (which was unlike her). She frowned, contemplating whether or not she should come up with a lame excuse and write a letter for Ron.

She pretty much forgot about that when the door flung open, and the throaty laugh-blond hair-humble boy walked in on her.

"Oh!" Hermione stood where she was at, not sure where to go. Being as brave as she could, Hermione finally had the courage to look up at the boy. His eyes, naturally, were soft and beaming, and he didn't even seem the least bit worried or ashamed that he had walked in. The boy seemed a lot older closer up.

"Sorry. It's my fault," he said. He didn't move.

"It's fine." There was a moment of silence. "You're - sort of in my way," Hermione said as nicely as she could. She smiled politely, slightly shifting her feet so he could move. Unfortunately, she was vaguely aware of how good he smelled.

The boy chuckled and moved slightly to the left, allowing Hermione some room to walk through, but by doing so, it would effectively force her to bump against him. Hermione internally rolled her eyes at his stupidity and childish behavior. She decided to stay where she was at.

"I need to leave."

"My name is Dale. Yours?" he asked. Hermione was now leaning on the door frame, Dale on the other side, his arms crossed lazily. He smiled.

"Pretty name; now, you need to move over a bit so I can walk through." Hermione's voice faltered. There was no strength in it, and she didn't believe one bit of it. She could only imagine what he was thinking.

She didn't like him, of course. But he seemed interesting. The only boy contact she ever made was with her friends, and Ron's family. All the men in Hogwarts were ignorant and immature, running on their hormonal instincts. On top of that, this man was a Muggle. She hardly ever talked with the other species from the Muggle world.

"Well then, there must have been a reason why you were looking at me the whole night. I came here to introduce myself and chat with you a bit. I hope you don't mind," Dale said. Again, he shifted his feet and actually looked nervous. Huh.

"Are you nervous?" Hermione smirked tightly although she felt a certain ring of satisfaction. Good to know her uppityness was back despite he caught her staring at him.

Dale's eyes glittered and he smiled brightly. The blond locks carefully tucked on his head became loose. "For someone who knows how to act tough, you sure don't look like it."

Well, one thing was for sure: he knew how to evade questions.

Hermione really wanted to leave. (He was right about how she didn't look too tough).

She didn't feel bad talking to him, but her curiosity was overwhelming her. Obviously, she wasn't planning to cheat on Ron, but Dale was pretty, and he was remarkably taking interest in her . . . .

Hermione was just missing Ron too much. She hasn't spoken to him since the last time she saw Ron, and it was taking a toll on her. Their relationship was not solid, defined. The ground underneath was shaky. She didn't know what to think. Did she love him? Perhaps, but Hermione was completely not ready to say it to him. She wasn't ready for him to consume her, to mark her.

And before she could think, she asked, "Which university do you go to?"

Dale smiled for the nth time again. "Now, I didn't come here to badger you with my life. Tell me, where do you go?"

_I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dear Dale. I decided to take a year or two off because my best friend planned to kill the darkest wizard of mankind. I helped Harry Potter retrieve the Philosophers Stone, I got petrified by the biggest fucking snake ever, and the school was nice enough to let me go back in time to do extra classes. I went out with the Quidditch superstar, Victor Krum, but you don't know him. Let's see . . . fifth year I fought against some mean idiots with really cool masks, and the same goes for another two years. I cannot seem to remember much, now. Hmm . . . I am (was) the smartest person in my year. But none of it matters, does it?_ Hermione thought.

"York," Hermione blurted out. It was the only school she could think of.

"Well then, nameless beautiful person, I shall see you there."

She had a knack for saying too much. Damn her and her mouth.

* * *

As usual, King's Cross was completely packed. Men and women with briefcases hustled and bustled about. Smoke was covering the air, the whistles bouncing off in different directions. For a split second, Hermione thought she saw Dale, but alas, he was not there. She breathed a sigh of relief.

After the little incident by the bathroom, she never saw him again. But she couldn't help but replay the event over and over again. If he had asked her out, would she have said yes? What would his kisses taste like? Would she watch a film and cuddle afterwards with him like an obsessed fool?

She wondered what it would be like to be a Muggle, to have no idea who witches and wizards were, thinking they were the only sort of thing that appeared in films. She wondered if she wasn't a witch, would she be attending York.

That was probable and open to debate.

"Well, I guess this is where we stop." William smiled tightly, his shoulders sagging a bit. He seemed sad. Mum had already started to tear up for she was dabbing her eyes.

"Dad, don't be sad. I'm sorry if I have to be there early, but the letter said so," Hermione said in a last effort to appease her actions. The real reason why she was at the station so early was to avoid the Weasley family as much as she could. It was common knowledge that the Weasley's were always late, so as far as Hermione knew, she was going to be alright. Besides, she was told to get there on time because she was now Head Girl, and her reputation needed to be intact.

"Of course dear, we don't want you to be late." Meredith came forth, tears slowly dripping. She enveloped Hermione in a no-oxygen-zone hug for a very long time. Her father, on the other hand, kept it short and simple. But she was not fooled – his eyes were also wet.

They said their goodbyes, and Hermione unwillingly went through platform 9 ¾ feeling a bit apprehensive. The magic pushed her out of the Muggle world and forced her inside where she really belonged. A pang of sorrow filled Hermione

It wasn't completely packed, but more and more families were coming in. As Hermione looked around, she saw a bigger amount of lower classmen as opposed to the upper ones. Attendance was low at Hogwarts for the past couple of years, and the only students who came were the newer ones; they had to start their education on time, but it did not matter for the older kids. But conditions were a lot better now, and the regular Hogwarts attendance was back.

The letter instructed Hermione to go through the first section of the train, one which was relatively close to the prefects area. Her luggage in tow, she came forth shyly, excited beyond any recognition. She was finally Head Girl! What more could she ask for?

Well, she could ask for someone else to be Head Boy. She could ask for someone other than Blaise Zabini.

There was no one else in the area, save for him. It was spacious and large, with two very wide and comfortable seats for Head Boy and Head Girl. There were sweets and small snacks laid out for the two to eat. Despite all the amenities, Hermione did not feel comfortable. She was seriously considering breaking the rules and sitting with Harry.

"You," she said distastefully. Hermione didn't hate Zabini, but she wasn't very fond of him either. And anyway, why was he back at school? Hermione decided to voice her opinion, with Zabini replying with a curt, "Because I wanted to."

Hermione inspected him while sitting down on the opposite chair across from her new partner. Zabini was different from the other Slytherins. The first thing was he was not affiliated with Death Eaters, or he was just very good at hiding it. Second . . . Well, there wasn't anything else beyond that.

He hated blood-traitors and Mudbloods. He was mean. His ego and arrogance was as large as a Hippogriff. He rarely talked to anyone, and he was just not – suitable to be Head Boy. And then, for one fleeting second, Hermione wondered if Malfoy had been the front runner for being Head Boy.

"You can stop sitting like that. I won't bite." Zabini shifted a little. His dark chocolate eyes scanned Hermione, no doubt wanting to scare her despite saying he wouldn't. Hermione squirmed in her seat.

"Well, I can't help it! You're a pompous Slytherin who hates Muggleborn's. I mean, honestly, how are we going to work together?"

Hermione gaped in horror, realizing that she just said something very mean and rude. She stuttered and tried to say something, but she was completely mortified. Although some of it was true, she had no right to say something like that. _She_ was supposed to be the better person. She even ruined her brand new cardigan by stretching it too much between her agitated fingers. Shit.

Zabini sat impossible still, his handsome African face betraying nothing. With one finger ticked on his forehead, he looked impossibly regal and beyond composed. Hermione sweated and fretted. God, she was stupid.

Finally resigning with a sigh, Zabini said,"You started a reform, Granger. You might as well seal the deal." With that, he leaned forward, slowly outstretching his hand.

And Hermione shook it.


	7. Chapter 7

Every time he walked, the sounds would echo. Even though the portraits would talk amongst themselves, everything was hollow and empty. He really hated walking down the corridors, remembering the tortures that would take place. Although he enjoyed his time at Hogwarts before the Death Eater nonsense, he found himself sickened looking at the ancient walls. It was a bittersweet reunion.

It was day two at Hogwarts, and Draco was the only student here, aside from some of the professors. Currently, he was going to meet Professor McGonagall at her new office. He didn't know what to expect, but he was scared nonetheless.

"Marple cloves," he said to the winding staircase. He was granted access, and with an agonizing wait, up, up, he went. Finally, Draco was standing in front of the door, nervous. Trying to muster up some courage, he timidly knocked on it.

"Come in," a soft but tough voice called.

It never ceased to amaze him how the Head study looked like. There was a certain magnificent feeling about this. As he stepped inside, he, yet again, admired what was in front of him.

Draco looked around, suddenly finding a series of differences. The bright phoenix was no longer perched near the desks, and Draco didn't fail to notice two new portraits staring right at him. He swallowed, feeling uneasy as the twinkling blue eyes and the pile of black hair watched every step he took.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy. Please, sit," said the Headmistress. As usual, her hair was in a tight bun, her glasses settled on the bridge of her nose. Her green robes seemed to have had a makeover, since they had a touch of gold here and there.

Quietly, he sat down, his mother and father's upbringing kicking in. In a simple motion, his back went in a composed manner, his right leg crossed over. Seeing that his trousers were revealing how old and unfitting they were on him, Draco dropped his leg, feeling uncomfortable. As he waited for McGonagall to say something, he fought hard not to look at the two most important people in his life.

"How are you feeling, Mister Malfoy?" McGonagall started off. She had a couple of papers in front of her, and a skinny wooden box.

"Wonderful," said Draco. His cold and arrogant manner had yet to improve.

Professor McGonagall ignored his statement and peered into the papers in front of her. She straightened herself several times and fixed the glasses on her nose.

"I have something to discuss with you," she said. "Some important matters."

Draco's heart began to beat in an erratic matter, and he forced himself to keep his calm. His hand tightened around the arm rest, and for one fleeting second, he looked up at the two people he dreaded to see. Dumbledore gave him a wink while Snape raised his head a little, but Draco could've sworn he saw him smirk.

"Mister Malfoy, are you paying any attention?"

He snapped out of his daze and stared back at McGonagall. He forgot how formidable she was.

"Yes, Professor."

"Good." A moment of silence passed. "Have a biscuit."

It took a minute for Draco to comprehend. He didn't even notice there was a plate of biscuits. "Sorry?"

"Eat a biscuit." Slowly, Draco brought his hand up and retrieved one, feelings its warmth covering his insides. It was delicious.

"As you know, Hogwarts has reopened, and we're eternally grateful for the amount of trust the parents have given us. However," she continued, "we - meaning the professors and I - are worried for your safety. Some students might feel a little hurt, and they might want to punish you."

"Professor, I'm . . . not part of that business anymore." Nervously, he started to toy with his half eaten biscuit.

Anyone who had common sense would have thought about that, but Draco seemed to have lost his mind. Not once did he think about the other students hating him so much that his safety might be a problem. Of course they would hate him enough to hurt him; after all, he was the one who was part of it, and not too long ago, he was proud of it.

Guilt started to creep in, and he wanted to run. Watching all his former classmates make fun of him and be mean to him was scary. It wasn't his fault, after all. He wasn't the madman who wanted to take over the world! He was just an innocent boy who was caught up in loyalty, honor, tradition, and fear.

"I understand that, Draco," Professor McGonagall said softly. "Therefore, if you feel anyone is bothering you or you feel your life is at stake, you must tell us immediately. And please, try not to be stupid enough to fight people on your own." Draco nodded his compliance.

"The Ministry has notified me of your, shall we say, predicament. After much persuasion, they have allowed you to use your wand, which Mister Potter has kindly given back." Draco mentally scoffed; he highly doubted that Potter gave his wand back for good intentions.

"Let me warn you Draco, once and for all - don't you dare use this wand for recreational purposes, good or bad. You might find it hard to adjust, but nonetheless, here it is."

"What do you mean, 'adjust'?" He was getting mighty impatient. After Potter had taken his wand, he was upset and completely angry at him. It was as if a part of him was gone. Now, his wand was within his grasp and his heart was aching to touch it.

"I don't know," the headmistress said. "But I do know that if you try any spells without the classroom's consent - meaning, the spells you can practice - you will be severely punished. Is that understood?"

Draco nodded. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Are you saying I can't even use Lumos whenever I want to?"

McGonagall sighed. "I don't want to come off as rude, but . . . I - Well, you can use simple spells, but any spells which are used offensively are prohibited."

Draco got it. The Ministry thought he was going to use one of the Three Unforgivable Curses, or any spell that directed harm. Draco wasn't stupid. Naturally he wouldn't use any of those; why would he? Considering it might take time for Draco to get _adjusted_ to his wand, what else could he do?

"Anymore questions?" McGonagall asked.

Draco shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Well then," McGonagall said. "You'll need this for your classes."

His heart began hammering beneath his set of ribs, and when Professor McGonagall took out his wand, he almost died. Draco was certain he felt a tug, a certain spark when he touched his wand.

After Draco spent a considerable amount of time admiring his beloved, McGonagall said, "You're free to leave now."

"Thank you, Professor," he said breathlessly. Immediately, Draco sped off to the door, only to feel something hit him on the back. He turned around and saw his biscuit floating, waiting to be eaten. In a haste, he had forgotten about the warm biscuit. He looked up at McGonagall, baffled.

"Next time someone, preferably me, offers you some food, I'd suggest you take it. And eat it," she said, her eyes narrowing down while her lips formed the tiniest of smiles.

In record time, Draco got to his room. He might have slipped a step or two since he was in a hurry. He was now in his bedroom, breathing heavily, anticipation hanging in the air.

Gingerly, he picked up his wand, his hand shaking. Goodness, he was acting like an over-excited little boy; although, he had every reason to be. Several deep breaths later, Draco had calmed down enough and had his wand in a fixed position.

"Lumos!"

Never in his entire life did he feel such pain. It tore his heart, his muscles, his nerves until they were no more. His body burned and burned, burning it until it became crisps. To his horror, he saw his veins getting ready to pop out from the sheer force of the magic.

An hour later, after sweating buckets and nearly dying from exhaustion, Draco thought back to his experience. It appeared that his wand and devil's mark were connected somehow. He recalled how strong the magic was, and how utterly weak and tired he had become in less than a second. It was as if the wand got its magic from the devil's mark. Of course, these were just his theories. Perhaps he might find something in the library, in the restricted section.

Libraries and dusty books swirled around his fragile head as he fell into a deep slumber. But before Draco closed his eyes for the night, he had a suspicious feeling he saw a certain bushy haired Mudblood dawdling in the library, too.

* * *

Today, Draco was anxiously waiting for Hogwarts students to come. He had woken up early, feeling nervous, but thoroughly exhausted. Draco had been experimenting with his wand, trying simple spells, waiting for the day they wouldn't take a toll on him, practicing them over and over again.

Draco had managed to get his shirt over his head when suddenly, a large pale ghost swept over his room, scaring Draco.

He screamed out in fright, jumping on his bed. As he looked around, he saw that the Bloody Baron was carelessly floating in the middle of his room, his arms crossed. Draco's heart slowed down, but the incident reminded him of some very unpleasant dreams.

"Fuck, Bloody Baron, are you trying to scare me into death?" Draco slumped on his bed, willing for his heartbeat to decrease.

"You would not be the first to say that, but that is not why I am here. You have a parcel waiting for you," Bloody Baron said. "And watch your language, boy."

Draco scoffed. "You came here just to tell me there was a parcel waiting for me?" Languidly, Draco got up, slipping on a pair of trousers and putting on socks. Staring at his clothes made him feel sad. They barely fit him and they were old. His money income was being handled by the Ministry, and he really hated that part.

"Humph. If you do not want a friend, then so be it. I was merely trying to help you," said Bloody Baron. He sniffed and raised his head, turning around and floating away. Draco sighed, feeling uncomfortable and angry that he was even pitied among Hogwart's ghosts.

Damn ghosts. I don't need them to be nice to me. I can handle things on my own, thank you very much.

With renewed energy, Draco left his empty room and went to retrieve his parcel. It was his schedule, but to his horror, he realized he was retaking half of his classes from his sixth year. At the bottom of his schedule, there was a note from the Headmistress, telling him that he needed to complete these classes in order to graduate. Although he did not have to attend the classes, he had to do the work on his own time, completing them on the due date and turning it to the assigned professor.

How was he ever going to finish school? Having friends and a few allies seemed like a pretty good idea, now.

* * *

All the teachers were animatedly talking among themselves, chatting about their summer break, and how happy they were to see the kids. Once again, Draco was sitting on the edge of the Slytherin table, munching on his toast. Usually when he would sit there, he didn't care about McGonagall eating with a couple of teachers, but now that they all arrived, Draco didn't like being stared upon.

He gave little glances here and there, and every time he caught a professor staring at him, they would ostentatiously turn their head away. It was bothering him to no end. He knew that three years ago, he would have craved the attention, but times had changed. Three years ago, he was an idiot.

He left the hall, not even caring about the food. Immediately, Draco went to his room and tried to do something with his spare time. Practicing spells seemed like a good idea, but Draco didn't want to exhaust himself on the first day. So, instead, he resorted to sleeping, although it came at a very high price.

Eventually, Draco did fall asleep, tossing and turning. He never remembered any of his dreams, but he did remember someone shaking him nonstop.

"Blaise?"

Blaise gave a tight smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. His suit was buttoned up to perfection, and his old friend looked older, smarter, and more handsome. "Good evening."

Draco was still in shock. He and Blaise weren't the best of friends, but they were well acquainted with each other, sharing dorms and having much wealth. For a moment, Draco was happy to see Blaise, but he soon felt ashamed of his current situation. He looked down at his attire, bleakly glancing up at Blaise's.

"When did you get here?"

"About twenty minutes ago. All of the students are in the Great Hall, but I was allowed to come here and gather my things," Zabini explained.

Draco frowned. He was hoping for some kind of human contact for the rest of the school year. "Gather your things? Already hating the dungeons now, are we?"

"I'm Head Boy. I need to collect some things for the HCR. In case you are wondering, I will be sleeping here, and I'll have to deal with your annoying ass the whole time. And, as a bonus, I will be annoying yours," Blaise said, smirking as he did so.

Draco smiled forcefully, but he was thinking. Obviously, Draco wasn't going to be Head Boy. A pang of sorrow hit him, and he almost felt jealous of Zabini. This guy had nothing to worry about other than staying on top of his classes, and trying to be a model citizen for all of Hogwarts.

"Congratulations," Draco managed to say. "Who's the Head Girl?"

Blaise snorted and rolled his eyes. "Who else would it be besides Granger? My, she was in a shock when she found out." Blaise went to his suitcase and started taking out parchment and ink, along with some books.

Granger. He hadn't seen her since the battle, and he forgot he was going to have to see the annoying saviors of the world. He was certain that Potter pitied him for unknown reasons, and Draco didn't want to communicate with him by any means. Weasel was entirely another matter. As for Granger . . . he didn't know what to think.

How was he going to be able to go to class and act normal in front of her? Was Granger thankful? Did she forgive him after what he had done? Did she even care that Draco almost risked his safety trying to–

"Hey, are you going down to dinner?"

Draco snapped out of his thoughts and gazed back at a waiting Blaise. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he wanted to face all of the students. They would likely stare at him, and he would be the most unpopular man at Hogwarts. He was feeling guilty and humiliated enough already.

"In a bit," he ended up replying.

So, being the coward he was born to be, Draco Malfoy sat in his room for a whole two and a half hours all by himself, unsuccessfully calming down his hungry stomach.

He could get used to this. He could get used to being a coward.


	8. Chapter 8

"Take a look at the Slytherin table," Ginny mentioned.

With a slight amount of hesitation, Hermione turned her head and zeroed in on their enemy. The table was vacant, but still filled with students up until the fifth years, much like the rest of the tables. Having completed (and passed) their OWLs, many of the fifth, sixth, and seventh years decided to leave Hogwarts, to work or stay with their families. Also, those who were associated with Death Eaters were too ashamed of coming back to Hogwarts.

The Sorting Hat had put everyone in their respectable houses. Still, the Great Hall was forlorn, its old and new ghosts hiding behind the walls.

Sitting perched at the corner of the table, Hermione saw a stoic Blaise nodding at an animated Pansy Parkinson and a bored-looking Theodore Nott. There were a few other seventh and sixth years, but for the most part, the Slytherin table was empty. Hermione frowned, not liking that Pansy was still here. As for Nott, she didn't know what to expect.

"Hey, wasn't Malfoy supposed to be here?" asked Neville. Hermione turned her attention back at her home table, enjoying the presence of her housemates. Neville, Dean, Seamus, Parvati and Lavender were also here; there was still an absence of seventh and sixth years, but for the most part, every table (besides Slytherin) was back to normal.

"Oh yeah! What happened to him?" exclaimed Dean. His curiosity immediately died down when Ginny started to giggle as Harry was tickling her. Ha, thought Hermione.

"He's probably checking to see if there are nargles under his pillows, and quite possibly scared senseless of coming into the Great Hall," a soft, distant, dreamy voice said. As Hermione suspected (suspecting was impossible; really, she had the most recognizable voice ever), Luna Lovegood came forth, reading an old copy of the Quibbler upside down.

Everyone said their hellos, and a couple of the boys snorted at Luna's remark. But considering the fact that Malfoy wasn't there, Hermione, for once, agreed with Luna. She didn't feel remorse for Malfoy, but his lack of presence made sense. Hermione took one last fleeting look at the Slytherin table and said, "Perhaps Luna is right."

"Warming up to Malfoy now, are we?" Slade, a fellow "eight year" remarked.

"Agreeing with Luna has nothing to do with warming up to Malfoy," Hermione quickly shot back. "Clearly, he's embarrassed, which is a rational emotion considering his circumstances."

The table went quiet for a short moment until Neville said, "Gran said something funny a while back. She said she heard Malfoy was tortured in a prison for any more information on escaped Death Eaters." Hermione frowned, remembering a not too distant memory; Ron had mentioned something similar . . . .

"No, no that's not what I heard: supposedly, he had to dig stuff up like, you know - aw hell, I dunno," said Dean.

"He probably had to clean up dung from dragons," Seamus quipped. He grinned and continued to say, "Serves him right, uptight bastard." A few around Hermione chuckled. Harry, on the other hand, kept quiet. Hermione understood that Harry did not resent Malfoy as much as he wanted to. It was part pity, part trying to resort to old ways. Hermione, on the other hand, was still intent on disliking him.

"A bit curious, aren't you Seamus?"

Seamus visibly paled and reluctantly glanced up, Zabini's stone cold face staring him down. "S – Sorry," he muttered. The table instantly became hushed, everyone wondering what Zabini was doing here.

"Oh, hello," said Luna. The air was momentarily relieved of the tension, but it was quickly resumed when Zabini did not respond. Luna didn't seem the least bit unfazed.

"Don't apologize to me," was all Zabini said, looking straight at Seamus. Swiftly, he turned his attention to Hermione and said, "We need to have a chat with the prefects before everyone leaves."

Unwillingly, Hermione dropped her chocolate pudding which she was enjoying, and out of impulse, looked around for permission to leave. It was quite silly, of course, but her time running away from Death Eaters and trying to stay alive taught her to be safe.

"Well?" Zabini inquired.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming." Hermione got up, brushing a few crumbs here and there. "I'll see you later, then," Hermione said to her friends.

Zabini, being the gentleman, let Hermione go first. Nervous and unsure of how to act around Zabini, she began walking in purposeful strides, walking well ahead of him. "I hope you're not afraid of me, Granger," she heard him say. He jogged and caught up, standing next to her. He seemed a little out of breath. "Boy, don't you know how to walk."

She looked at him, baffled. Who was this guy? He had the power to scare anyone with a simple look, and now, he was acting as if they were friendly. She didn't necessarily hate Zabini, but she did not like him either.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Hermione asked incredulously.

Zabini tsked and said, "Like that - like you think I'm going to kill you. I thought we had already established a truce of some sort." His chocolate eyes hardened and darted back and forth, avoiding Hermione. "Anyway, there is no need to walk anymore. We're supposed to wait for the prefects here." Hermione nodded back fervently.

Several minutes of awkward silence swept through. Zabini was casually leaning against the wall while Hermione stood ridged, tapping her foot. She refused to look at him. He seemed to know Hermione's resolve, for he was smirking nonstop. God, what was up with Slytherins and smirking?

One by one, the prefects came forth. Once they had gathered around, Hermione found that some of the prefects weren't fifth years, and a few seemed undedicated. There was a girl who was standing in such a slouched position, Hermione fought hard not to straighten her back. A boy already had a very suspicious mark on his neck.

"Hermione? Would you do the honors of informing everyone what they need to do?" Zabini asked her.

She gave him a slight nod and said, "Hello." She paused, her slight stage fright getting to her. "Well, I - Each of you need to gather the first years and take them to their respectable places, as you may know," Hermione explained. Quickly replying the sentence in her head, it sounded particularly dim and stupid.

She swallowed thickly, continuing to say, "We'll be meeting at our headquarters tomorrow to discuss rounds, using the prefect's bathroom, and other matters." She peered into the bored, fatigued faces and with a deep sigh, she said, "Off you go."

Everyone quickly scampered away, and Hermione had a distant feeling she failed. She really was a bossy person, and upon seeing their vacant expressions, there would be – had to be – more than bossing; perhaps bullying would work.

"Do you want me to be in charge of the discipline, or you?" Zabini asked.

"Sorry?"

"Discipline for the prefects. Me or you?"

Hermione snorted. "I guess I can do the organizing. You can do the rest." And with that, she sped off and tumbled on her back on to school bed, sleep rapidly swallowing her in, Malfoy and odd Slytherins momentarily leaving her head.

* * *

She got her schedule early in the morning, her first class being Charms. As usual, she was excited to gather her ink, quill, parchment, and books together in a neat eco-friendly bag her parents got for free. There was a certain type of fun putting all her school supplies together, ordering them according to which classes she had first.

Morning started off nice until Hermione had to go downstairs. She and Zabini had to chat with the prefects; they were going to meet right after the school day ended and talk at their headquarters. Again, half of the idiots seemed bored and tired after doing Merlin knew what. Grumpy already, Hermione plopped down on the seat next to Harry and roughly grabbed a muffin.

"Someone's cheerful," he stated.

"Hah! I wish," she said and took a sip from her juice. "The prefects are bloody annoying. It's like they don't even care. Some of them aren't even fifth years, which is flat out ridiculous." Hermione took a large bite from her muffin and huffed again. "It's frustrating."

"Ah, Hermione, don't stress out on the first day, yeah? If it makes you happy, we both have Charms at the same time," said Harry. "But Ginny and the real seventh years will be joining us. Now she'll see how much of an idiot I am," he grumbled out.

"I think you need a healthy dose of embarrassment."

Since the seventh years had attended most of their sixth, the headmistress combined the eight years with the seventh years. In some cases, a few students only had to finish one term for they already did half of it. Of course, the classes were taught different when the Death Eaters were at Hogwarts, but for the most part, everyone would be caught up. However, classes were unbearably full with the amount of people who were left behind on their education.

By the time Charms rolled in, Hermione was feeling much better. She and Harry had chosen a secluded spot at the back of the classroom, as they always did. Ginny was now replaced by Ron, and her dull mood returned in an instant.

Wanting to pay attention to something other than Harry and Ginny flirting, Hermione turned her head to the side, intending to space out. But in a matter of seconds, Hermione decided she'd rather watch her friends act silly than look at him.

Draco Malfoy was sitting way in the corner, his arms crossed, his body slumped as far as it could go. He was fixated on staring straight ahead. It seemed he wasn't adamant to study, for he had no books or any school supplies around him. Hermione noticed that he seemed haggard and his blond hair was no longer holding its haughty position. Malfoy was the only person sitting at the table. By the looks of it, everyone had calmly avoided him; even the sixth year Slytherins ignored Malfoy.

She couldn't help but stare. For six years, he had bullied, tormented, called her and her friends names because Malfoy thought he was better. This man almost killed Dumbledore. This man ran with Death Eaters and Voldemort. This man almost killed Harry and Ron at the Room of Requirement. This man let her get tortured at his house.

She was angry. Hermione didn't necessarily hate him, but she despised him. Malfoy was an arrogant prat, an idiot, and an overall ass. And for a split minute, Hermione's evil self emerged, as she wished Draco wasn't even born.

"Welcome back everyone!"

Hermione jumped and focused her attention to Professor Flitwick. The short, jovial man was smiling, and Hermione found herself smiling back. "I understand times may be hard, but we are back and fresh with a clean start! This is NEWT level, so except a work load.

"Today, we will start with a new charm called the Plectere Charm. Anybody know its use?"

Hermione's hand shot up, her first day of school adrenaline kicking in; Professor Flitwick beamed and called on her. She straightened her back a little and cleared her throat, for she was truly excited to answer the first question of the day.

"The Plectere Charm is able to copy an object, and even in some cases, people. The object and the person are able to retain functioning abilities, but in case of a person, it would be regarded as a dummy - alive and moving, but without a soul," Hermione explained. "As for nonliving things, it works fine."

"Precisely," said Professor Flitwick. "All you have to do is point your wand at the object and say 'Plecterio'." Flitwick demonstrated how to do the charm and fixed a few pronunciation problems. When he was satisfied, he said, "We won't be working on people, but I have compiled a few objects in the cupboard. You are always free to use your own pens and pencils. Go on."

Hermione decided to stay in her seat while Harry got a couple of rubber balls for her and Ginny. Harry sat down and dropped the balls on the table, exclaiming, "I miss the days where Ron had to pick everything up."

"Well, Harry, sorry to disappoint." Ginny replied, and she smacked his square in the chest.

After four tries, Hermione was able to duplicate the rubber ball, earning twenty points for Gryffindor. Hermione, giddy over her achievement, now moved onto her pencil and copying parchment. She tried to teach Harry how to do it, but he was failing miserably. Out of habit, Hermione glanced around the room, only to find several people were having trouble. She smirked, her competitive nature getting to her.

She peered around some more until her eyes searched for Malfoy. To her surprise, she saw he had not moved, and Flitwick had obviously known that. Malfoy was still staring straight ahead, but Hermione saw his lips move, forming a no. Flitwick was throwing his arms in a happy manner, no doubt trying to incite Malfoy.

With rapt attention, Hermione saw Flitwick grab Malfoy's wand and hand, tipping it towards his pencil and saying the incantation.

What happened next was indescribable.

A loud scream came from the back corner, and Flitwick jumped away from Malfoy. To her horror, she saw Malfoy's face scrunch up in pain, his skin turning beet red, his hand clutching his chest. Everyone in the room had backed away, afraid from the pained Malfoy. He had fallen on the floor, and was now a balled up mess. Hermione was reminded of the torture session with his aunt, making her shudder.

Another scream echoed off the walls. A few people even left the room. Flitwick was desperately trying to get Malfoy to calm down, but he kept on screaming and screaming. His anguish caused Hermione to clamp her hands over her ears, and she too left the room. For the first time ever, Hermione pitied and wondered what had caused Malfoy such pain.

She ran down the steps, his screams getting to her. Her own cries of pain echoed inside her head, and shuddering again, Hermione turned a sharp corner to avoid seeing people, and in return, them not seeing her in a distressed state. Flashes of her terrible time at Malfoy Manor swam back and forth, as well as other horrors she saw during the war.

"Ow!"

Hermione groaned at the contact. She stepped back, only to find a small, wooden door in front of her. Puzzled, she looked at her surroundings. Somehow, she had gotten very deep inside the castle, and was nestled between two columns and thick walls, hiding Hermione and the wooden door. The position of the secret door reminded her of the Leaky Cauldron, considering that both were in plain sight, but clearly, few people knew of their existence.

Her curiosity getting to her, Hermione opened the door. A skinny, stone winding staircase met her. Unsure if she should go on (after all, she was missing class), she paused and was about to turn around. Suddenly, she shut the door behind her._ I'm skiving off classes_, she thought.

"Lumos," she whispered once she had reached the stairs. It was slightly dark.

Once she had descended the stairs, the sight surprised her. It was a secret room, filled with a fireplace, a living room complete with a very comfy couch. The carpet was a lush Persian kind, its color making the room look regal. The ceiling was high and arched, a large window on the east wall. It had a pleasant feel, and now that her and Malfoy's troubles were gone from her head, Hermione went to examine the view from the window.

Large, red curtains covered the tall window. Dramatically, Hermione moved the curtains aside and gasped at the sight in front of her.

The lake was in its full glory, but it was the surrounding mountains and green scenery that made her gasp. It was so pretty, so peaceful. Last night's drizzle made the leaves of trees stand out, the sun coating them with warmth.

Thinking, Hermione glanced around the room. She liked this place. It wasn't spooky. It was a perfect place to forget things and to relax. She could easily do her work in silence without any problems.

Dropping her eco-friendly bag on the floor, Hermione smiled and sunk down on the couch. She was going to love this.


	9. Chapter 9

Running was probably the best thing Draco could do. Running away from the truth, running away from petty squabbles. Running away from humiliation and embarrassment. Just running.

_In one-two-three, out one-two-three._

This was embarrassing. He didn't expect to feel that much pain; it was worse than he had expected. What was even more humiliating was that it was in front of everyone. His own classmates knew of his problem, and it certainly wasn't theirs to know. Besides, Draco had expected McGonagall to tell the professors about his condition. Clearly, she forgot.

By the time he reached his favorite two columns and wooden door, his limbs felt as if they were made of dragon meat – thick, beefy, and unable to move. Throwing the door aside, he tumbled down, unaware of a certain someone who was resting peacefully on the sofa, the window curtains pushed to the side.

He nearly died seeing that Granger was asleep on his sofa, who somehow managed to worm her way to his safe haven. This room was just for him, and no one else. After losing so much, he was, after all, allowed a room just for himself. But now, bloody Granger had ruined his plans, and she was going to pay.

"Get out!" he screamed out. The force of his voice caused his chest to hurt some more. Clutching it again, Draco trudged forward and came closer to a scared Granger. Her wild hair stuck out in several, unattractive directions, a large imprint of her hand on the side of her left cheek. She stammered and roughly jumped out of the couch. Draco was too much in a distressed state to care that he ruined her sleep.

"I – I'm sorry . . . didn't know," she mumbled, gathering her bag. Granger tripped while she tried shouldering her bag, and she began to mutter useless words. Draco stood, his body still shaking, sweat dropping from his pristine hair. He just really needed her to leave. This was his room, damn it!

After what seemed like hours, Granger finally began to walk out of the room. He heard her tiny feet run up the stairs, and disregarding the slamming of the door, Draco collapsed on the sofa. The sofa which was now tainted by an Aztec-gold strand of hair and a soft smell of apples, mixed in with cinnamon. He pulled back, surprised.

This was his room, damn it.

* * *

He woke up well into the day, and he decided to stay there for at least a few more hours. Draco knew students were up and about, and his show during Charms was probably the hottest topic today. Not only that, Granger found out his sanctuary, and this new predicament dampened Draco's mood even more.

Draco had found this place the year Death Eaters took over Hogwarts. Participating in tortures and trying to act like he was still the boss was a tiring task. After a particularly long night, Draco miraculously found this refuge, and ever since then, the room was for him. He would escape here to forget about the horrors of what was happening at Hogwarts, and more importantly, ignore the taunts of his former friends.

Tap, tap, tap.

Whipping his head to the side, he saw an owl hopelessly flapping its wings, carrying a letter on its tiny beak. Curious, Draco stood up and went over to the window. Was it for him? The owl flapped its wings even more; yes, it was. Draco glanced around - there was no possible way he could open the window. How was he going to get the letter?

Damn, he had to go outside. Whoever sent this was bloody annoying and smart. Too much.

He contemplated. Perhaps he could wait for the bird to tire and fly away. Or, he could stop being such a coward and get the hell out of here. Alright then, Draco Malfoy was going to face the world and fetch the letter. It was a simple task to do, right?

Not so much.

His hands were shaking by the time he had reached the door. Glancing at his wristwatch, Draco realized there were only seven minutes left until the school day was over. He could run. Again. If he could find a window in less than seven minutes (which should not take that long), Draco would have the pleasure of coming back to his favorite room before anybody would see him.

It turned out, finding a window would take more than seven minutes.

By the time Draco found one, it was past nine minutes, and fresh torrents of kids were walking in the hallway. He ignored them as much as he could. He tried to ignore the stares and hushed whispers. With each passing second, his blood heated, he sweated and itched.

It was extremely hard to not look at anyone and keep his head down, focusing on the ground. He never had to do that before, and now, raising his head would surely be the death of him. Draco could picture the scene before him – a blond boy, clenching and re-clenching his fists, his body tight and ridged. On the other side of the story, he could picture the insults forming in their heads, the words of hate settled on the tips of their tongues.

Where was the fucking window?

Oh no, oh no, oh no. The bird was patiently waiting on one of the benches, right in the middle of the lawn. Right in the middle of Hogwarts' population.

Time slowed down, a nameless person purposefully making the lawn inexplicably larger, farther away from his grasp. He gulped and swallowed air, his legs trembling. Draco's gray eyes zeroed in on the owl, and nothing else. He continued to walk, but it seemed so far away! Why couldn't he get to the bird? The ground was soft, and for a split second, he wished for it to take him away, deep underground. The cool, September air felt muggy, clinging on his skin and robes, making him feel claustrophobic.

_In one-two-three, out one-two-three._

Finally. Finally he had the letter within his fingers, and finally, he could leave. Draco thought about turning around and walking back, but if he turned around, he would have to see people's faces. What if he walked forward? It would be a longer walk of shame then he'd expect. For some reason, Draco saw more people out in the lawn. Were they here just to see him? Were they here to throw something at him? The owl hooted, its head tilting to the left, indicating he walk forward. But why?

Draco speed-walked for the third time today, across the quad, listening to the owl's instruction. Pretending to act normal, he ripped the pristine envelope, littering it on the ground. He peeked up, intending to see eyes stare him down. Intending to see food thrown at him. Intending to have curses and hexes hurled at him.

But there was nothing.

Everyone was happily chatting away, not even noticing Draco Malfoy was right here, right smack in the middle of everyone. No one was paying attention to the former Death Eater and former bully. In fact, no one seemed to care. For the first time in his entire life, Draco was invisible. He was fretting about something when there was nothing to worry about. He was nobody.

This hurt. His entire existence was meant to be seen. He was so used to wearing the most expensive clothing, so used to walking down the winding staircase at the Manor, his hands barely touching the cherry wood, his footsteps hardly making any noise. Draco was used to having his way when it came to anything. He was used to being Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoys, wealthy son of Lucius Malfoy.

At this moment, he had to get used to Draco Malfoy, the coward, the idiot, the boy no one paid attention to anymore.

After an eternity, he began to walk out of the lawn and into the school. The cold and harsh reality of his life was slowly crashing down on him. He looked down at the stone ground, taking in his ill-fitting robes. Instead of feeling hot and bothered, he felt chilly and distant.

Resting his back on a column, Draco unwillingly opened the letter. It was written by Blaise.

_Get out of that room. Oh wait, I just did that. Come to the common room as fast as you can, so we can head out to dinner._

He gritted his teeth. He knew it was him. Blaise was the only one he had mentioned something about going somewhere to clear his head. Being the Slytherin he was, Blaise took advantage of it. Merlin, Blaise was getting on his nerves.

Smack.

Whatever it was, it was hard. His head was throbbing right after the impact. Looking to the side, Draco saw a red apple innocently rolling on the floor. A rush of cold air washed over him, producing a peculiar feel, making his spine tingle from top to bottom. He wasn't totally invisible, he duly noted. That was when he heard some voices.

"Hannah, let it go. Just walk away," someone coaxed. Hannah? Who was Hannah? And why was she throwing an apple to Draco? He fought the urge to turn around and yell at the girl. What did he ever do to her?

"No, he . . . I hate them. I hate him," Hannah said, her voice wobbly. "My mother . . . ."

Hell no. This Hannah was Hannah Abbott. The Hannah who lost her mother during their sixth year. What was he going to do? Should he turn around and apologize? Should he again run? Was it even appropriate? Why all these damn questions?

And that was when he heard the soft crying, the pitter-patter and shuffles of their feet walking away. He cringed upon hearing those sounds he had come to dread. Did he really cause that much grief? People were stopping a bit in the hallway, looking back and forth at the crying Hannah and at the stoic Malfoy. It looked like people didn't know what to do with Malfoy - ignore him or scare the living daylights out of him.

Deciding to make the decision for his peers, Draco picked up his feet and walked away, tremors of unneeded guilt coming in tremendous waves, swallowing him whole.

* * *

"Where the fuck have you been this whole time? I've been trying to explain to everyone what the hell happened," Blaise managed to say. He was furious, no doubt about it. "And would you mind telling Theo and I how Granger knew where you were?"

Draco bolted up, the action throwing his book on the floor, where Theo's foot was resting. "Ow," he muttered, glaring at Draco.

He failed to apologize to Nott and exclaimed, "What?"

"Yeah, she came over to Blaise and said you were taking a nap," Theo quipped. "Bit of a shocker, if you ask me." He came over and sat down on Draco's bed, pushing his feet to the side so he could have some room.

Draco's mind was reeling. Why did Granger tell Zabini and Nott the truth? She didn't have to tell them anything. After all, he was the one who kicked her out of the room. Not to mention they didn't have the best track record.

"I dunno," he dumbly replied. The less he said, the better.

The dorm became silent after that, each in their own thoughts. Finally, Theo broke through and said, "Well, let's head out to dinner."

Zabini and Theo locked their gazes on a terrified Draco. His eyes widened. "Nope, not a chance."

He had been getting his food from the elves long after dinner. They were surprisingly nice, asking him if he wanted anything in particular, and giving him everything he wanted. At times, he felt he was back at the Manor, getting stuffed with all the sweets in the world, Turkish Delights coating his lips and fingers. And anyway, getting extra food from the elves was better than sitting in the Great Hall and not getting extra food.

"Yes you are," Blaise all but commanded.

"Besides, I'm starving," Theo complained.

Again he shook his head. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

Blaise and Theo looked at him incredulously. "Stop bullshitting us," said Blaise.

Outraged and knowing he was right, Draco got up, accidentally kicking Theo. "There's no bullshitting going on here," he responded, ignoring Theo's cries and swearing. "I'm not going." No way in hell was he going. After the events of today, sitting in the Great Hall was the last thing on his mind. He was already thinking of scenarios – scenarios where he had pumpkin juice all over his robes, scenarios where people banished him from the dining hall, scenarios where he sat all by himself at the table and no one looked at him. He was not leaving.

All of a sudden, he felt two pairs of arms dragging him out of the room. "Let me go!"

Theo snorted and smirked. "Nope, not a chance." Bastard was throwing his own words at him.

OK, OK - he could do this. Draco was a Slytherin. He was cunning. He was Draco Malfoy. Walking and sitting in the Great Hall wouldn't - shouldn't - be a big deal. All he had to do was eat, drink, and pretend no one else was in the room. And then he could bolt right out of there. The plan sounded perfect. Flawless.

By the time they had reached the hallway going towards the Great Hall, both Theo and Blaise had let go of Draco's arms. He was getting more nervous by the second, and if he didn't do anything now, he was surely going to do something stupid. Which he did.

Turning to the left and instead of heading north, Draco ran as fast as he could back to his room. He could hear Blaise and Theo yelling, telling Draco he was acting like a little boy. Well, there was no doubt about that. He was running away from eating in a roomful of people. He couldn't stomach the thought of being ignored or ridiculed.

Swiftly, Draco opened the door and ran down the steps. Just smelling the room made him happy. The smell of apples and cinnamon . . . Wait, what?

Granger was here. Again. Patiently lounging on the sofa, her feet resting on the spot where he would lay his head. Bloody hell; couldn't she just leave him alone for one day?

This time, she didn't seem scared. Granger calmly put her feet down and stood up, smoothing out her robes and looking at Draco straight in the eye. Step by step, he came down the stairs. Step by step, his heart thudded beneath his skin.

Somehow, meeting face to face with someone who reminded him of another, better time was worse. And, she had just seen him in his distressed state – twice. This was nerve-wracking. Granger knew him to be the former Death Eater who was a coward, an arse. She knew how much he lost – no doubt about that – considering she probably had deep ties within the Ministry.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked cautiously. His voice was devoid of any malice. Why was it so hard now, but easier back then? He was uncomfortable, that's why.

Granger visibly reddened and cleared her throat several times. She nervously fiddled with the button on her robes. Eventually, she said, "I was just . . . sitting."

That was a load of shit. She knew this room held some significance to Draco, so why the hell was she back here? Instead of feeling ashamed, he was getting slightly pissy. He resented her. She had everything he didn't. Granger was a celebrity. She had a home, a family to go back to. No one hated her – not enough to stick something on her chest and restrict her magic. She got to be normal, whereas Draco was not. Why couldn't she leave?

He scoffed and said, "Let me clarify: why are you back here?"

Granger's eyes hardened, and Draco could see her Gryffindor courage come forth. "There's no reason to get angry about it," she said.

"Actually, there is."

"You're acting childish." Yes, he was. It was odd how they were willing - and able - to go back to the hateful routine they used for six-plus years.

A moment of silence passed through, neither wanting to back out. With great effort, Granger said, "I came to this room after I left Charms, and I like it."

Draco frowned, his embarrassment getting to him. "I left before anyone else," he mumbled, casting his head down. His recent memory clogged his brain, making him shudder involuntarily.

"No, I – I left early," she mumbled back. "Earlier," she added, bringing unneeded attention to her grammar. Instantly, Draco snapped his head up. Why did she leave early? It wasn't like she was the one who was constantly in pain, barely even able to produce the simplest charms.

The air was palpable, thick with tension and unsaid words. He didn't want to ask her the real reason why she left. Draco broke the silence by asking, "What did – do – you mean about liking this room?"

Her attention shifted, and she no longer looked nervous. "You kicked me out. That's not fair."

Draco groaned aloud. She wanted to stay here. How was he going to explain this was his room only? That this was the room where he was able to think after being forced to do something he didn't want to do? She didn't know how much it meant to him, and he sure as hell was not going to tell her as such.

"Look, all you need to know is that . . . sharing doesn't go well with me. I've obviously known about this longer than you." He looked up at Granger, seeing a reddish tint coating her skin; he was making her upset. "You're the smartest person in our year - try to put two and two together, yeah?"

She was fuming. "You owe me," she said as calmly as she could.

A bewildered expression clouded Draco's handsome face. Scoffing, he said, "What do you mean?"

Granger swallowed and lifted her chin, her voice getting sharp, tight, and bossy. "I was the one who told McGonagall about you needing rest, and I was the one who informed your friends about your condition," she explained. "So yes, you owe me."

All right, he was officially pissed. Did she pity him so much that she was willing to (temporarily) forget about their ongoing hate? This was excruciating. Knowing that even Granger - Granger! - pitied him was unbearable. Everything was fine between them - the bickering had gone back to its normal habit. Now? Now, the typical air was gone. Damn her.

"No, I don't. I don't need y-your pity," he spat. His face was heating up from shame and anger. "Don't expect a 'thank you' anytime soon, and don't expect being welcomed here."

"You're the most conceited, self-centered tosser there is! I don't pity you," Granger threw out. "I was trying to be nice. And you know what? It was a complete waste of time. You don't deserve it, considering how mean you are even after what's happened! One should think you've grown even just a little bit, but you've proven everyone wrong," she said, her skin getting blotchy and her voice shaking.

Oh, so she thought she knew everything, right? Fuck her. Fuck her and her stupid superior attitude. She didn't know anything. How dare she throw such words at him? Merlin, he really, really disliked her. She was the one person who could push his buttons. All of them. Not only that, she owed him. Granger was an idiot for not thinking about that. If she was too thick not to take that into consideration, Draco was not going spell it out for her.

"I want you to leave. Now."

Without a moment's hesitation, she left, slamming the door once again. It suddenly became eerily quiet. Slowly, Draco slumped down on the sofa, rubbing his aching forehead. Why the fuck was she here in the first place? Why did she want to share a room with him? This was unnecessary – Granger's meddling. Merlin, she was as stubborn as a Hungarian Horntail. So what if he kicked her out? Draco had every reason to do so. She was being bratty, Draco concluded. She was being spoiled. She just wanted everything for herself.

The smell of apples and cinnamon wafted up towards Draco's nose, forcing him to inhale the homely scent. He groaned in frustration once again.

This was his room, damn it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: So. Ahem. I don't think you guys know how horrible I feel right now, not only because I'm giving you a not-so-great chapter, but for not updating in five months. School has really gotten to me, but that's no excuse, is it? Also, my hard drive crashed, so all of my future chapters for this story were deleted. Fucking Microsoft. But to start the new year (three days later), I come bearing gifts. **

**I can't promise you the next update will come faster. Please trust me on this. I wish I could surround myself with FanFiction and Word all day, but I can't. Forgive me, por favor! I feel disgusted that I made a promise and failed to keep it. **

**I don't know if it's OK to ask for thoughts/reviews... If it makes you happy, I will hate myself until I update again, hmm?**

* * *

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Hermione muttered as she briskly walked down the corridor. She was angry at herself for going back to the room, but she was even angrier at the stupid prat named Malfoy. After everything they both went through, he was still willing to act like an arse. Pieces of hair got stuck on her face, and she unsuccessfully tried to get rid of them; alas, they persistently stayed on, and now she was close to throwing something against the walls. Goddamn people and hair.

She didn't know the exact reason why she went, though. Was it because she was trying to resort back to old days? No, Hermione immediately realized. Malfoy was just a stubborn person who thought he could boss anyone around. Well, times had changed, and he was no longer Malfoy. He was not the rich boy everyone was afraid of.

Hermione halted her steps for a second, thinking. Malfoy had talked about her pitying him, and how he didn't want her to. Did she really pity him? She slightly giggled at the thought; Malfoy and pity did not go together. But then why did she tell Blaise about his whereabouts? It wasn't as if he would care (and he clearly didn't).

Dinner was close to being over, so Hermione walked faster, her thoughts still jumbled. Another question boggled her: why did she feel the need to go back to the room when Malfoy obviously found it first? Was it because she was a selfish girl and after everything Malfoy did to her, she wanted him to suffer?

Yes, she did.

Good God, who was she? She was truly evil. Despite feeling a heavy and guilty weight, Hermione felt he deserved it.

Now this thought scared her. She was stooping low, and she was unashamed of it. Perhaps Hermione should have been sorted in Slytherin rather than Gryffindor.

* * *

"There you are, Hermione," Harry mused. He smiled at Hermione while she roughly sat down, immediately digging into the food. Almost half of the hall was gone, already retired to their dormitories. The only people left on the Gryffindor table were Harry and Ginny, along with a few second years. The food was cold, too.

Ginny frowned at Hermione's animalistic approach towards eating dinner. "Something eating you up?"

Hermione shook her head and said, "No, nothing in particular." Secretly she debated if she should tell Ginny about the Malfoy debacle. For some reason, however, she decided against it. After all, Hermione was a big girl. She could handle Malfoy.

Harry and Ginny ignored Hermione's less than stellar attempt to talk to them. Having nothing to do, they both got up. "You're leaving me?" asked Hermione, slightly hurt. It wasn't everyday that she ate dinner by herself.

"We have to finish our homework," replied Harry. "Fancy letting me copy your Transfiguration work?" Their new professor, Senora Rosa, was impossibly nice and it was extremely easy to cheat. She refused to acknowledge the cheating; as long as she didn't see it with her two eyes, they were not. Hermione thought otherwise.

She gave an unladylike snort. "No, of course not, Harry! What will happen when I decide not to help you out anymore?"

He looked unsure for a second and answered, "I fail my classes . . . ."

Hermione cut him off, saying, "I won't give you my homework. Duh."

Ginny giggled as Harry pouted. "We'll leave you alone now. C'mon, Harry," she said, tugging Harry's robe. Harry left without saying goodnight to Hermione; Ginny stayed behind.

" 'Mione, here. It came in late," she whispered, handing a piece of parchment. Hermione immediately stopped eating, her insides churning and her heart beating. It was a letter from Ron.

It had been a long time since her and Ron exchanged letters. Realistically speaking, keeping a long distance relationship was going to be hard. Hermione didn't know what to write when she would compile a letter. It seemed as if everything she ever wanted to say to him would fly out the window, leaving Hermione with nothing. So, she opted to write useless words. She felt horrible – and it was – but what was she to do?

Ginny left, and once she went past the hall doors, Hermione impatiently opened up the letter.

Dear 'Mione,

A lot has been going on the shop; I never knew George had a brain underneath his pile of hair. Recently-

The letter was mostly about the daily life Ron was dealing with. It was slightly dull. Perhaps the reason it was boring because Hermione failed to make an effort in the first place. Her heart thundered beneath her ribcage; she was ruining a perfect relationship over her twisted and pessimistic ideals.

"Ms. Granger?"

Hermione yelped, her letter falling on the ground. Once her erratic breathing slowed down, she looked in front of her and saw Sir Nick floating on the bench. He was staring at her thoughtfully. Hermione was never scared of Hogwarts ghosts, but Nick's strange glance was unnerving.

"Forgive me, dear, for I could not help but see how desolate you seemed. Is everything all right?" he asked, concern covering his words.

She smiled and was slightly warmed by his consideration. "Oh, thank you. I'm fine. It must be school getting to me."

"It is quite alright to feel . . . different about school."

Nick's comment threw Hermione off guard; she was unsure of whether to laugh or take it seriously. "Sorry?"

He cleared his nearly chopped off neck and said, "I've noticed the way you do not pay as much attention to school as you used to. It is all right if you do not feel the same way."

This conversation was getting odd because, well, she was (as far as she could tell) not feeling that way. Hermione cleared her intact throat and pretended she was in a hurry. "Uh, thank you for the advice, Nick. I must get back . . . ."

He smiled and floated up a few inches. "Ah, yes. Goodnight, dear." With that, he disappeared in thin air, whistling as he did so. Hermione knew this was a conversation she should remember because Nick didn't just talk. However, by the time she went up to her dormitory (studiously avoiding Harry and Ginny), she forgot all about it, all done in typical Hermione fashion.

She also forgot the letter on the Great Hall's floor. Sir Nick did not fail to see this, and after several attempts, he was able to hide the letter in his invisible pocket. Taking it to his secret fourth floor room, he hid the piece of parchment without reading a single word. It wasn't his to read.

Yet, he felt it was his to guard.

* * *

The school day was over, and Hermione was furiously working hard at the HCR. She was trying to organize the rounds schedule, but due to the troubled past, Aurors were still on high alert. Therefore, the kids went inside the school to complete the rounds. Hermione, however, was very suspicious as to why it would take so long for them to finish. Kids these days.

The door to the HCR opened loudly, and in came in Zabini. He casually strolled in with a petrified third year from Ravenclaw. Hermione saw lingering tears on his eyes, and her feminine heart instantly softened. Zabini, completely oblivious to Hermione and the kid, continued to walk towards his desk, dropping his bag and sitting down. The boy stood several feet away, his bottom lip trembling.

Blaise sighed and said, "Take a seat. And for fucks sake, don't cry. You're old enough not to." The boy sat down and lowered his head, unsuccessfully trying to cover up his tears.

Hermione frowned at his brashness. "Is that really necessary?"

Zabini gave Hermione a long, bored look, his head rolling to the side in a lazy fashion. "It's his detention," he called out before he looked away. He stared at the boy for another second and said, "Here, organize my papers in alphabetical order." The student's face was straight away washed with relief, but before he could live his victory, Zabini said, "I wouldn't get my hopes up."

Hermione was unsure if she should interfere. Considering the way Zabini was acting, she figured it was not the best time to bother him. Thankfully, he didn't let the boy do any hard work, aside from constantly badgering him about not keeping everything clean. Two hours later, the boy left – with plenty of dried tears on his cheeks – and the room was quiet again. She glanced at her clock and saw it was well late at night.

She yawned and made a move to gather her things. "Leaving so soon?" she heard.

"It's half past eleven. Of course I'm leaving," Hermione replied.

Zabini gave a half grin, half smile and said, "You know you have your own bed here."

Well, of course she knew! After rereading Hogwarts: A History a million times, and hearing from the other Heads what the HCR was like, she knew the blueprint for the entire area and how the walls sometimes disappeared because the professors were worried what kind of business the Heads were up too . . . Several decades ago something happened between a Head Boy and Girl (something that was not exactly mentioned in the books, but Hermione was not stupid, and she certainly did not like Zabini that way – yuck!). So yes, she damn well knew.

"I prefer to sleep on my old bed," was her genius reply. She kind of did. She would, however, stay here to sleep (the bed was utterly soft), but Zabini always inhabited the area. He was a guy who possibly walked around shirtless, and he was a Slytherin. So in all actuality, she didn't trust herself to sleep there. How very brave of her.

He smiled and said, "I don't bite. Sometimes I think you really are scared of me." If Zabini saw Hermione's eyes pop wide open and her skin pale, then he chose to ignore it. He had an unnerving ability to point out what others wished to be hidden – otherwise known as the truth. Damn him.

"I like my roommates . . . ." she murmured. Now that was a dirty lie.

He gave a knowing nod and also stood up. " 'Night, then," said Zabini as he went off to his chambers.

Hermione watched him disappear and didn't move a single inch. What was up with her and trust? Zabini had already demonstrated that he was willing to move on. Besides, he never directed harm towards Hermione, Ron, and Harry; just indirectly.

She was acting childish, and she hated herself for it. Whatever happened to her bravado? Hermione concluded since she was no longer in the line of fire, she had incorrectly assumed others would stay away from her. Sitting at the HCR was not as she expected it to be. Coming back to school was not how she expected it to be. What was wrong with her?

Suddenly, Nearly Headless Nick's words from last night rushed to her head. What did he say? Something along the lines of "It's alright not to feel the same way." Hermione thought for a little longer. She felt the same, but something was not the same.

She quickly realized she was not as passionate as she once was. Her eyes widened and her heart stopped. No! This could not be happening! School and books was everything for her. This was the apocalypse. She could already feel the room spinning out of control.

All right, Hermione knew it wasn't the apocalypse. Because if it was, then she wouldn't be feeling a little . . . relieved.

* * *

Hermione forgot all about the Malfoy fiasco, but when she heard shouting during a very tiny break time the students were given, she realized her interactions with Malfoy were not over. Turning a sharp corner, she saw the student population lined up against the walls, and in the middle were two boys beating each other with no regret.

Instantly, Hermione recognized Malfoy, who was on the ground, but she did not know the other boy. Before she could break up the fight, Malfoy got a small advantage and flipped the boy – a Gryffindor, she concluded – and began to punch him all over his face. Malfoy was already battered and bruised, but somehow he had the strength to break every bone the boy had.

Malfoy wouldn't stop, and the boy was now pleading. The cheering had died down, and some of the kids were giving worried glances. No one made a move to approach the two and break up the fight. Shaking her head and gathering her wits, Hermione took out her wand and with a simple flick, she separated the boys. She was horrified by their condition once she got a good look.

She walked over, furious. The Gryffindor's friends immediately came over and helped him, but Malfoy was left to attend his own wounds. She noticed how everyone avoided him, like he was a type of plague. "Anyone mind telling me what's going on?"

"He started it," a young Hufflepuff girl said, pointing at the Gryffindor.

"Shut it, Melanie, you know it was Malfoy," the girl next to the Hufflepuff hissed out. The first girl cowered and lowered her eyes, while the other smiled at Hermione. "Honest, it was Malfoy," the second girl deadpanned.

"That's a goddamn lie," Hermione heard. She looked over her shoulder and saw Malfoy had gotten up, but he was shaking all over and blood was freely falling from his face. He brought up his sleeve and wiped his nose and said, "I was walking to class when he provoked me." A small sniffling and groaning sound was heard from the Gryffindor, and Malfoy rolled his bruised eyes. "I was walking to class," he repeated. As he said his alibi, he refused to look at Hermione.

It seemed as if Malfoy was slightly pleading with her. After hearing his confession, half of the kids shook their heads and said no, he was lying. The other half seemed torn and didn't know what to say. The hallway was increasingly becoming louder. She was losing control, and fast.

"Quiet! I don't care who started what–"

"I don't care what happens to him as long as he dies," spat the Gryffindor. He too was up, his friends supporting him. "Go fuck yourself, Malfoy. No one wants you here, twat."

Malfoy reddened, and he made a slight move to the left, indicating he was going to leave. "Gladly, but not before I chop your remains and feed them to your family because I know they're lacking in the food department." He flushed crimson even more; whether it was embarrassment or anger, Hermione did not know.

"You rich, homicidal bastard!" the boy called out. He mustered all the energy he had left to break away from the crowd and charge towards Malfoy. The crowd picked up the excitement and began to cheer once again. No!

Hermione stepped between the two boys and stuck out her wand, pointing it back and forth between the two. "Back off. Now." The Gryffindor boy swallowed thickly and gave Malfoy a scathing look. She noticed Malfoy had not made a move to attack the boy, for he was standing in the same position he was at the entire time.

"Both of you go to the hospital wing. After that, meet me at the HCR and you begin to serve your one month detention – every single day. Got it?" She sternly stared at the Gryffindor. He nodded tersely. "Go." Thankfully, the crowd was slowly dispersing, and Hermione gave a sigh of relief.

She turned around and faced Malfoy, but before she could say anything, she saw a furious Zabini running towards them. "What the hell is going on?" He came towards Malfoy and angrily pushed his shoulder. "What the hell is your problem? Can't you stay out of trouble for one day?" Zabini's action caused Malfoy to be pushed closer to Hermione than she was used to.

Malfoy cringed at his harsh words and winced at the pain. "I . . . Never mind," he said as he dropped his head in defeat. Merlin, what happened to him? That was all he was going to say?What happened to the sharp remarks and the mean looks? This was not the Malfoy Hermione was used to.

Hermione inspected him a little closer. He looked just as weak as she first saw him, and the sight of all the blood made her stomach churn. He continuously looked down on the ground, as if he was being scolded by his father. Without warning, she realized felt remorse and pity for Malfoy.

Yes, Hermione was going to admit it: she pitied Malfoy. She hated him and pitied him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. C'mon, let's go," Zabini huffed out. He lunged for Malfoy's arm, but he quickly shook his arm away from Zabini's grasp.

"I'm not a fucking child, Blaise," he angrily spat. He gave a livid look to his friend and stomped off, probably to his special room.

Ah, yes. The room.

"How did you manage to stop it?"

Hermione snapped out of her daze. "This is a school of magic, after all."

He snorted, but his playful face died down. "I heard something about a detention . . . ."

Hermione nodded and said, "A month, every single day. I'm thinking perhaps helping with us won't do any good. Should I ask Filch if he needs an extra pair of hands?"

Zabini shrugged. "Sure." He glanced past Hermione's shoulder and said, "I better go. Something tells me Malfoy might find the boy again."

Once he left, Hermione cleaned up the blood on the floor, holding her breath as she did so. This wasn't school anymore. This wasn't books and memorizing and grades. This was emotions, heartaches, and cruel reality. There were no more petty arguments. This was real, this was life, and this – the frustration, the lack of loved ones – was the parting gift Voldemort and his followers gave to all of mankind.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, "for destroying us all." Even Malfoy, she added in an after thought.


	11. Chapter 11

**So... I'm sort of back. I know I'm one of those authors everybody hates because they don't update as often, but I know what direction I want to take this. Please remember this story isn't meant to have mystery, torture, or hexes bouncing back and forth. It's all about exploring the aftermath of the war. Also, I know this chapter is extremely small but I can promise you they will get longer. On a side note, I want to thank Kermit 304 for reviewing. :) **

* * *

His shoes were too small. His big toe, which was slightly fatter and longer than the rest of his toes, was poking outside his shoes. There was a small, sharp dent on them and walking was getting to be a pain.

Removing his worn shoes, he went over to his trunk and searched for a tiny black bag. He could easily tell there was no money in it; the absence of jingling coins told him as much. Sure enough, when he opened it he only had enough to buy a few chocolate frogs. Defeated, he threw the bag back inside the trunk. How could he afford them? He debated going to detention with Filch without his shoes, but he had a feeling he would need them.

He could ask Headmistress McGonagall to contact the Ministry to lend him some money, but he didn't want to see her.

"How did it go?"

Malfoy ignored Blaise and dropped down on his bed. He smelled disgusting, and had his hands been clean, he would lay them flat on his bed. Alas, they were covered with muck and ruining his bed was the last thing Malfoy would ever do. "Hold on, let me catch my breath." He was exhausted. His little gift was draining him, both mentally and physically.

Blaise smiled and sat down next to Draco. "After dinner, I need you to come into my office and serve the other part of your detention. I would let you slide, but Granger is a tight ass, so I can't help you weasel your way out of this."

Malfoy shut his eyes and asked, "What if I oversleep?"

"Then I think you have a good chance of Granger coming into the dungeons herself."

"I'm tired and worn out. Can't this wait another day?" Draco groaned when he tried to move his arm. His heart was failing to slow down even though he was lying perfectly still.

Blaise shook his head. "Sorry. You and the other kid need to serve it at the same time. Look, I'll pair you up with me so you won't have to work as much. Deal?" Draco nodded his head, and with great effort, rolled onto his stomach. Clumsily, he took of his tight shoes and snuggled up on the pillows. He felt Balise get up from his bed and walk over to the door.

"S'ut the door," Malfoy managed to say before he was dead to the world. Sleep was coming hard these days, and he needed to savor it as much as he could.

* * *

It was ten o'clock at night and Draco was still very sore. He was having trouble walking up the stairs which was why he was worried he would get extra punishment for arriving late. It wasn't his bloody fault.

He reached the office and opened the door. It was dark, save for the fireplace running and a few candles. There were books and parchment all over the spacious place, and a pang of jealousy and selfishness washed over him. Had things turned out differently, he would have been the one sitting where Blaise was and ordering everyone around.

Looking to the side, he saw Daniel already working with Granger. His jealousy was immediately wiped out with annoyance. If Daniel decided not to provoke him, none of this would have happened. He briefly took a peek at Granger and saw she had averted her eyes as soon as he looked. He slightly colored.

Malfoy wasn't sure how to handle Granger. His entire existence was spent on believing he was superior. He was wrong, his family was wrong, and all the legions of dumb men and women who followed the Dark Lord were wrong. As much as he enjoyed making fun of everyone from Gryffindor, especially Granger's sidekicks, they had won in the end. Draco was wrong and he was humiliated. As much as he wanted to go back to his former self (as evidenced with the pointless incident with Granger), he couldn't. It no longer held the same significance. He was an echo of what he was. And frankly, it was pitiful and he knew Granger thought same way.

"Draco, over here." Blaise beckoned him over to his desk where there were piles of parchment. It took him a while to get there and an extra minute to get comfortable on his chair. He thought about asking Blaise for a quick healing charm, but he did not want to appear weak in front of his friend, Granger and the annoying fuck-face. Besides, he welcomed the small amount of pain. This was nothing compared to what he has felt before.

Once Draco was told what to do, he bent over and began to work. It was tedious, pointless paperwork but at least there was something he was occupied with other than homework. He brought his books just in case he finished early since he had a lot to catch up on, but Malfoy had a feeling he wouldn't have a chance. As minutes passed, his mind drifted and he found himself writing scribbles. He was bloody tired and his head hurt.

Next thing he knew, he was hearing faint voices and his neck was cramping. There was drool on the piece of parchment where his head was resting. Shit. Quickly he looked at the clock and saw it was a little past 12:30. Double shit. He idly wondered why he wasn't woken up. Twisting his head to the side, he saw Granger and Blaise quietly talking in hushed tones. Surprisingly, they appeared to have a civil conversation. Malfoy knew they had to work together, but he never thought they might actually _enjoy_ each other's company.

Draco pretended to be asleep but kept one eye open to watch the two. Granger rolled her eyes and walked out, leaving just Blaise and him. He closed his eyes and tried to resume looking like he was dead to the world. "I know you're awake. Your eyelids are blinking." Blaise was staring down at him, a smile on his lips.

He gave a sheepish grin and lifted his head. "I didn't mean to sleep, sorry. I can finish this tomorrow." Malfoy got up and fixed his clothing, a habit he couldn't seem to shake off.

"No, it's alright. Once we heard you snoring Granger and I decided to let the kid go and let you sleep. I was tempted to pull a prank on you, but you pull some nasty hexes," Blaise said with a laugh. He went over to his desk and collected a few things. "You know, you can sleep on my bed if you want."

Draco shook his head, a slight amount of jealousy coming forth. As petty as it sounded, he didn't want to sleep on the bed he thought he would occupy. It would remind him of could have been. "Thanks but no thanks." He lapsed into silence and stood up. "Well, see you tomorrow." Blaise nodded.

Just as Draco was about to leave, he turned and asked, "Since when did you and Granger become good friends?"

Zabini's kept his head down but Draco could see a small grin forming. "Why, are you jealous of her frizzy hair? I could ask her which shampoo she uses."

He gave a tight smile back. "You know what I mean." His heart began to beat a little faster. Why was he asking Blaise such stupid questions? It didn't matter, didn't it? _Say never mind and walk out of here fast, you twat. _

His friend's jaw clenched. "Maybe I've changed." His raised his head and coldly stared at Draco.

"I see that." Draco was getting a wee bit angry for no reason. All Blaise had to do was give him a straight answer. He was obviously lying. Blaise would never change all because of some unusual circumstances.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He was inching towards Draco, his hand in his pocket.

"Nothing."

"I don't understand why it's such a big deal for you. I was wrong and I'm trying to make it right." He stuck his nose in the air and added, "Some people are willing to admit they were wrong. Some people choose to make it right, which is what I am doing." Blaise took a step back. "I'm used to thinking a certain way, but look where it got me. Look at where it got you. You have this," he pointed towards his chest, "have this horrible thing restricting every breath you take. Is it worth not being able to sleep properly at night?"

Blood was pounding in Draco's ears and his head was swimming. His throat was painfully tight, his palms were unnaturally sweaty. "That's not the answer I was looking for," he mumbled.

"I think you wanted me to say it anyway."

* * *

Things got rather awkward between Draco and Blaise. He wasn't angry with his friend but he felt like an arse. Whatever he said was childish and immature, but he couldn't get it out of his system. Was he secretly looking for proof that this – living in a world without prejudice – could work? It was probably shock, Draco concluded. The war ended in such an abrupt nature he had no time to process it. He had no time to take in his punishment, accept it, and move on.

There was nothing wrong with Granger and Zabini's relationship. It was expected, after all. They worked together and Blaise had changed. Draco wasn't jealous. He was just . . . processing that it could be possible. It was possible for him to move on, to have friends and not worry about his father disapproving, to have any girl he wanted without his mother pursing her lips, not worrying about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and above all, not be such an arse.


	12. Chapter 12

**Yay new chapter! I'm trying to build the tension between the two, so if you're wondering when you'll see M shizz, it'll come up. I also want to thank sweet-tang-honey for reviewing! **

* * *

For the ninth time in Hermione's life, she couldn't bring herself to do her homework.

It was an unsettling thought. She thrived in an educated environment and lived off of books, dates and life-saving information, but she just couldn't do it anymore. She was bored. Nearly Headless Nick's small conversation with her played in her head over and over, almost every day. For eight years, Hermione had focused her time in destroying Voldemort and studying spells so she could use them against their sworn enemy.

There was never a set plan for the "after." She attempted to talk about it, but it was too much to handle. Her dreams and aspirations seemed trivial compared to their predicament. Perhaps, in some faraway land, she could sit back and tune out the rest of the world. Unfortunately for her, she was not in a faraway land. Hermione was stuck in Hogwarts because she chose to be here.

When life handed you a box of ear wax flavored Bertie Bott's, you managed to make it taste good. Right?

Hermione sighed and put her Potions notes away; she could deal with it later. The weather was slightly chilly today, but she grabbed her robes and headed outside to clear her mind. Not many students were in the courtyard so she sat down on the nearest bench she could find. A cool breeze washed over Hogwarts, knocking some of her loose parchment out of Hermione's bag. "Bollocks!"

"Since when did you start saying that?"

"Ever since all my papers started flying everywhere!" Hermione quickly grabbed another one before it landed near a puddle. Harry handed her the rest of her papers and sat down on the bench. "Thanks," said Hermione as she sat down next to him.

Harry peered out into the lake and asked, "Where have you been? I know you're busy, but you can't be _that_ busy." He glanced at her before returning his attention to the lake. "You can always talk to me, I hope to know that."

Hermione sighed. "Oh Harry, I do. It's just. . . It's hard to explain."

He gave her a quizzical look and nudged her knee. "I'm _sure_ it is."

She laughed. "I can't. . .This doesn't feel the same to me anymore. I feel I'm in a dream state or – or I'm not even living." Hermione rested her head on Harry's shoulder. "What do I do?"

Harry was silent for a long time. "Dunno. I thought coming to school would give me a sense of normalcy, but you're right, it feels like I'm dreaming. I wonder if I'm useless to the world now that Voldemort is dead."

"Harry!" Hermione admonished. "You're _no_t useless. You have a chance to live and watch your kids grow, something your parents couldn't do." She gave him a tiny punch on his arm and smiled. "I guess you're not used to being normal, hmm?"

Shrugging, Harry replied, "I guess not. In order to move on I have to figure out what I'm passionate about, right?" Hermione nodded. "Well . . . how about a Healer?"

Both Harry and Hermione stared at one another before they burst out laughing. "Nice try," she said. "You are not suited for hospitals and holding people's hands. And anyway, I thought you wanted to be an Auror?"

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, but I need a break from fighting and training. I think."

"I think you might be afraid of experiencing something as horrific as Voldemort if you decide to become an Auror. But it's over. I mean, there will always be little idiots running around with dark objects in their pockets, but how bad could it be?" Another gust of wind swept through, causing Hermione's hair to fly all over Harry's face. "Sorry."

Harry smiled. "Maybe. Hermione, what happened? We were so sure of ourselves."

"Unfortunately, it's one thing I can't find in the library."

Another bout of silence came through, and Hermione snuggled closer to Harry. She always felt calm around him. Even in moments of doubt his presence somehow made things better. If only she could sit here for the remainder of the school year. . .

"Hermione, what's going on between you and Ron?"

She silently cursed Harry for bringing him up in their moment of peace. "Nothing."

He snorted. "Obviously nothing is going on, which is why I'm asking. Ron keeps wondering how you're doing, but I can't reply because I truly don't know how you're doing, not to mention he should be asking you these ques–"

"Alright! For Merlin's sake, I _know_. I've been slacking and I don't have time to reply to his endless letters," Hermione snapped. "He's over at Diagon Alley making toys while I'm trying to get my work done!" She stood up and collected her bag.

"Wh-where are you going? I thought we were having a conversation?" Harry looked at in her in disbelief as she began to walk away from him. "Hermione! C'mon! I just wanted to talk to you!" She ignored Harry and stormed into Hogwarts, feeling pissed at herself for PMSing and being rude towards Harry. He was only trying to help. Hermione kept walking in a fast pace, huffing under her breath and nearly crying. Why oh why did she have to treat Harry that way?

One thing was certain: he was right about the Ron situation. She didn't know how to explain to him what was going on between them. Once reality set in – the reality being there were thousands of mourners and homeless citizens due to the war while she was in the limelight – she couldn't bring herself to be in a relationship. Hermione should be thankful, and she was, but this after-the-war-elation was too much for her to handle. She grew up. Having Ron acknowledge her feelings for her and return them wasn't her top priority anymore.

Should she and Ron break up? Hermione immediately stopped and leaned against the wall. People only broke up when something serious happened. Nothing serious was happening. Therefore, there was no need to break up. She wasn't deliberately ignoring Ron, she was simply . . . All right, she _was_ ignoring him.

Hermione prided in herself for not being spoiled and a bitch, but this was unspeakable. _Unthinkable_. She couldn't treat Ron that way at all. After everything the two went through, she wasn't merely going to discard him like that. Deep down, Hermione knew she had the power to break things off, and Ron would let her.

Disgusted with herself, she turned a sharp corner and nearly hit her head against a pillar. Once the initial shock wore off, she realized this was the same room she chanced upon, and the very room she and Malfoy were fighting over. She spent a better part of her Saturday looking for the room, but couldn't remember where it was. Without further delay, she went inside and hoped Malfoy wasn't inside.

The place looked the same, but there was one glaring difference: while it was cold and windy outside, the window showed a bright and sunny day with birds singing. There was even sunlight coming in the room. It was extremely odd; it appeared as if someone put a fake photograph of the lake and stuck it on the window. Perhaps Malfoy charmed the window in order to make the dreary day look not so dreary. At any rate, she quickly situated herself before she would be kicked out the room.

There was nothing out of the ordinary; the couch was in the exact same place, it was still cozy and it appeared the stairs weren't rigged. Hermione immediately sat down, inspected for any rats lurking underneath, then adjusted herself and relaxed. She wanted to calm down as much as she could before Malfoy came inside. She wasn't going down with a fight, but arguing wasn't a top priority.

Hermione wasn't sure why she felt the need to occupy this room. She didn't want to give herself a headache and she certainly wasn't a mean person who would treat an ex-Death Eater horribly. There was something with this room that resonated with her. In a way, Hogwarts was her purgatory – she could easily quit school then feel like a complete failure (her version of hell), or she could finish and be a successful witch (her version of heaven). She needed to escape, and this was the only place she could find that provided some peace.

Once Hermione felt comfortable enough, she took out her Potions and actually finished her homework. Realizing her legs were asleep, she got up a stretched with all her might. When she finished, she turned around and saw none other than Malfoy, sitting on the stairs with a blank expression. Hermione froze and gauged Malfoy's face. Saying mean things to one another was something Hermione was _not_ looking forward to.

Hesitantly she asked, "How long have you been here?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Dunno. How long have _you_ been here?"

Narrowing her eyes and folding her arms over her chest, Hermione answered, "Dunno. I suppose you are going to try to throw me out again?"

He scoffed and sat up, walking over to the window, carefully staying away from Hermione. "That clearly didn't work out last time. I like to be a bit, shall we say, _creative_ with my techniques," Malfoy replid. Hermione's heart skipped a beat, but upon seeing his already pale face even paler and his haggard look, she concluded he wouldn't be able to do any harm today. She _humphed_ and took out her Transfiguration homework.

It was extremely hard for her to pay attention while _he_ was sitting down and possibly planning ways to throw Hermione out the window. It made her skin prickly, her head swimming, and her forehead began to perspire. By no means was Hermione weak, but being in the same presence as Malfoy with no place to run was nerve-wrecking for her. It was one situation she wasn't prepared for, even if she asked for it.

As the clock ticked, Hermione got more nervous and couldn't concentrate. She was tempted to break the ice, but they were already on thin ice and speaking up would only worsen the issue. Anytime she got nervous she would talk . . . a lot. Sometimes it worked and other times it didn't. Malfoy was near the window, away from her and occasionally staring off. Her heart rate slowed down because now she didn't feel the need to open her mouth. If he could ignore her, so could Hermione.

Once Hermione actually calmed down and finished all of her work, she began to pack quietly while peeking at Malfoy. He was still in the same position five minutes ago, and that included staring at the window . . . again. Perhaps she was watching him for too long for he suddenly said, "See something you like?" Hermione expected him to smirk, but it was lost under his grimace. She rolled her eyes and answered with a tight, "No."

Just as she was about ready to go up the stairs, Malfoy said, "Nuh uh, you're not leaving yet."

She turned around and snapped, "Excuse me? I can damn well leave whenever I feel like it!"

"Let me remind you something: _I_ occupied this room first. _You_ came in second. If you're going to come in here and barge into my personal sanctuary, I feel it is only right we strike up a deal," Malfoy said calmly. He got up and slowly walked over to where she was standing, although he was several paces away. To her annoyance, Hermione noticed Malfoy's legs were slightly shaking and briefly wondered what was causing him this misery. Not that she really cared, it was just Hermione tended to be a little too observant.

Now this got Hermione's attention. "What . . . do you have in mind?"

A moment of hesitation swept through Malfoy's face before he gave his proposal. "I'm a little . . . behind in my school work. I'll let you stay here whenever you want – and I won't bother you – unless you give me any of your homework I request. At any time, for any class."

Hermione was fully prepared to object and call him bonkers, but after a few seconds of debating, she realized it wasn't a bad deal. In fact, it wasn't even a proper Malfoy deal. It was something Ron and Harry tried to do several times over their school career, but of course she brushed it aside. Malfoy's proposal leaned more towards a favor than a deal.

Hmm. "You know, ever since your little fight, the Headmistress has asked me to write a report on you after every detention. If she suddenly gets a report saying how you misbehaved . . ." This was a complete and utter lie, but she needed some leverage. Although Malfoy said he would let her use this room and not bother her, she still wasn't sure about it.

Malfoy's jaw tightened. "What do you want? You're never satisfied, are you?"

"I'll be satisfied when you agree to my terms." She crossed her arms and smiled in victory.

"And your bloody terms are . . .?"

"Whenever I ask you to do something for me, you do it. Oh, and I want to make a contract."

Malfoy's eyebrows furrowed in distaste. "No contract. I don't want something written on my forehead or my family jewels falling off. And if you want a slave to do everything for you, just hire a house elf."

Ugh, it was just a contract. And yes, she _was_ planning on using the same spell on the contract, but clearly she had to come up with something else. Plus, she wasn't asking Malfoy to make her bed or anything, but he was making it seem like she wanted him to. Perhaps she should. And how dare he suggest using a house elf! "Firstly, there will be no need for you to worry about the contract. It would make me feel a bit better if we had one." Malfoy rolled his eyes, but she ignored it. "Also, what kind of person do you think I am? Do I look like I would ever use a house elf? I would never do that to them! They don't deserve that treatment. I know it's not an issue for you –"

"Alright, alright, stop getting your panties in a twist. What else do you want me to do aside from cleaning your shoes?"

He was such a crude arse. She thought for a few seconds. "You must be civil towards me all the time –"

"I said I would, didn't I? Or where you too busy –"

"I could never know with you!"

"For fucks sake, are you _that_ afraid of me? Do I look like I have the ability to throw curses at you? Do I look like I can even stand on my two feet?" Malfoy's face was red from anger and yelling too much.

Her face burned with shame. She could barely look up, let alone even stand. He was right – she was afraid of him. She was afraid of his history and his future. After all, he didn't do much when she was being tortured by his aunt. Hermione's best friends hated him, and she was pretty sure she felt the same. While he appeared to have some difficulty adjusting to whatever his condition was, Hermione was having a hard time comprehending that Malfoy was no longer the same despicable, robust person he was. His vigor and fight was lost, but former Malfoy was all Hermione knew of him. She couldn't wrap her head around his new Malfoy – a boy with no money whatsoever, who lost his father and everything he ever knew. Someone who was asking for homework and a little bit of help.

Quietly she said, "You're right. I – I shouldn't have said that." Finally summoning the courage the look up, she stared straight into Malfoy's eyes and uttered two words she thought she could never say to him: "I'm sorry."

With those parting words, she ran out of the room, embarrassment and humiliation being the reason why her eyes, not the cold air, were wet.


End file.
